


Hell Hath No Fury

by Fitz



Series: Winchesters vs. Immortals [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Supernatural
Genre: AUish, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitz/pseuds/Fitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are dying at an unusual rate in a University town. Dean Winchester tangles with Immortals while attempting to hunt down the cause.</p>
<p>First installment of a short series of fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> This installment takes place in 2002--before Supernatural and after Highlander: The Series. Sam fans--sorry for his limited exposure here, but he will show up in the next stories.
> 
> Things to know about Supernatural: Dean Winchester is a hunter of supernatural baddies. His father is John, and his younger brother is Sam. John's wife--Sam & Dean's mother, was murdered by a demon when Sam was a baby and Dean was 4.
> 
> Things to know about Highlander: There are Immortals among us... This story assumes you know a basic background. Immortals don't die permanently unless another chops his head off in a barbaric game of Last One Standing. I ignore anything outside of the series (movies never happened). I don't touch too much on the Watcher Society aside from acknowledging its existence. Joe Dawson is a Watcher and knows about Immortals.
> 
> If I left anything out which requires clarification, please let me know.
> 
> Warnings: None for this chapter.

Wednesday, October 30th, 2002

Wednesday nights were barely worth the effort of opening the bar, Joe frequently thought. There were always the usuals—lonely guys with no one to go home to, Dan and Bill who came to avoid going home to their wives, and the odd person trying to drown away sorrows in the bottle. Tonight a few of the locals were celebrating a birthday. Obviously, where else did three single guys in their late thirties go but a bar to celebrate turning another year older?

Oh, and Adam had stopped in to chat. Joe flat out refused to let the guy rack up a tab. Yes, he and Adam were tight—he'd leap in front of a bus for the guy if it'd help him—but he just never knew when Adam would fly the coop and disappear for months on end. Joe couldn't afford it. And Adam really could, no matter his grumbling. Jerk owned a huge estate somewhere in Europe. The least he could do was pay for his beer.

He no longer had to bring it up, though. Eight years, and Adam had finally gotten it through his thick skull. Now, Adam just accepted his beer and slouched down on his stool, drinking moodily.

"That was some nasty business going down at the University," Joe remarked. He had to watch for it, but he caught the slight twitch at Adam's lips and nose. A hard man to read, this one, but if you knew the signs, he was an open book. Adam was upset.

He had a right to be. Three years teaching at the University, and Adam had admitted he enjoyed it. There had been three deaths over the past month—two students and one professor—and people were taking it hard. From what Joe understood, one of the students had been in Adam's class. He was taking the whole thing rather personally.

Joe pulled out a class and poured some scotch into it. He could eat the cost tonight. Adam grunted and picked up the glass, swirling it for a moment before tossing it back. He set the glass down with a grimace.

"I'm good, Joe," he said bluntly. "Don't get me drunk tonight. I'm not the happy sort."

"Yeah, I know." But Joe poured him another, and he flung it back without a second complaint. "You know the guy who died last night?"

Adam snorted and took another pull of his beer.

"Hated the prick," he admitted. "I never thought he was suicidal."

"They say how he did it?"

"Nothing official, but hearsay has it he stabbed himself," Adam shook his head, looking disgusted and a bit unsettled.

Joe couldn't blame him. It was bizarre. The first student had been a troubled young man. While people were horrified, there had been murmurs that no one was overly surprised when he hung himself with his phone cord in his dorm. Not two weeks later, a girl—Sara, as Adam had known her—had sliced her wrists wide open in the bath. She had been a happy girl, involved in campus life and averaging A's and B's in all her classes. Everyone had been shocked.

Obviously this one came as a surprise as well. What Joe didn't like was that there were so many in such a short time. It wasn't normal.

Another couple of people walked into the bar while they were talking. Joe nodded at one—Ken who owned the bookshop downtown. The other was some kid he didn't know, so he let Pete deal with it. If the kid wasn't over twenty-one, Pete would make sure he got lost. Pete got the kid a beer, so apparently he was legal, barely.

"Think there's something shady going on?"

Adam shrugged, irritable and showing it.

"MacLeod doesn't think so," he muttered, sounding awfully peeved over the fact. "And the only thing those three had in common was the damned University. _Professor_ Johnston was an asshole, not exactly the sensitive type. I'm good at reading people, Joe. Sara and that bastard were _not_ suicidal before this month."

Joe grimaced and handed Adam another beer. The man had said he didn't want to get drunk, and Joe wasn't worried. It took a lot of alcohol to get Adam even slightly tipsy.

"Sorry," Adam said abruptly. He turned and leaned back against the bar with a sigh.

"No, man, you're right to be mad," Joe smiled wanly. "We've just got to get your mind off this crap. No Mac tonight?"

"He's subbing for someone tonight," Adam shook his head. "A lot of professors canceling this week."

"What's he teaching?" Joe asked.

"Art history," Adam said, a trace of his usual roguish grin flashing. "He asked me to do it, but I'm pretending I don't know anything about art right now."

"Just ancient mythology," Joe said wryly. Plenty of art in that line of study. Adam's grin was unrepentant.

"Just that," he agreed. His gaze listed to the group of guys drinking away their buddy's birthday at the pool table. "You got rules about betting here, Joe?"

Joe followed his gaze and felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. The barely legal kid had somehow integrated himself into the group of thirty-something men. They were currently caught up in a game of pool with him, nudging him in a friendly manner and laughing when he grinned sheepishly at them.

"If people are stupid enough to bet on a game of pool, they deserve what they get," Joe said finally. If he were being honest, he would say no, of course he didn't allow gambling. It led to bad feelings and bruises in the parking lot. But there was something about that kid.

"He's hustling," Adam declared.

"A bit young," Joe said uncertainly. His observation was reinforced when the kid pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, scowled at it, and shot off a quick text before pocketing it again. There was more good-natured ribbing from the other guys, but nothing he could hear from across the room.

"That kid isn't new to it." Adam glanced around the bar, his search quick but deliberate. "He's alone, though. Not too bright."

“Those guys won't jump him if he takes their money," Joe replied. Of this he was confident.

"We know that, but how does he?" It was not often that Adam was so intrigued by a stranger. Joe was still curious as well. There was something almost familiar about the kid, but he could not recall ever seeing him. Really, the kid didn't stand out aside from being perhaps a little better-than-average in the looks department. Downright pretty for a guy. But his clothes were plain, jeans, tee, flannel shirt, and a leather coat. His hair was military short, and he had no visible piercings or tattoos. Nothing that made him noticeable aside from his behavior.

The twerp was cleaning house on that table.

"He's not hustling," Joe said. "This would be taking longer."

"I'd say he already goaded those guys into betting a lot of money against him," Adam countered. "You might have to eat the cost of their stupidity."

"I already got their cards," Joe smirked. "They're paying one way or another."

"You're a hard ass, Joe," Adam said fondly of the grizzled barkeep.

"I'm 55 years old," Joe said, knowing full well it would get a laugh out of Adam. "I can afford to be."

And there it was, a sharp bark of laughter and twinkling eyes. Adam was terribly amused.

"Old man, you are," Adam scoffed good-naturedly. "However do you tolerate all us young upstarts?"

"Just barely," Joe grinned.

"Game over," Adam said, and Joe quickly looked to the group across the room. The kid had a shit-eating grin on his face, and the other guys looked disgusted with themselves but affably handed over a wad of bills. The money went straight into the kid's pocket without being counted— _good boy_ , Joe thought, surprising himself—and the four parted company on good terms. They even shook hands. "He's good."

"Managed not to piss 'em off," Joe remarked. 

That was good for the kid, but it was not so great for Joe's business. Now the guys could not afford more beer, and they knew it. They were packing up to go. Just one reason why he usually didn't allow this kind of thing—one kid wouldn't be able to eat or drink nearly as much as three big guys.

The kid claimed a stool just one down from Adam and nodded to get Joe's attention. And damn if the kid's eyes weren't just a bit too familiar for Joe's comfort. He hated not knowing.

"Another beer?" Joe handed over a bottle when the kid grinned at him. "I'm not usually fond of people who hustle in my bar, kid."

"They were the ones who wanted to play," the young man shrugged and nodded when the three men brushed past him on their way out.

"Take it easy, Dean."

"Hey, Dean. Hope your daddy isn't too pissed at you staying out past curfew!"

"Ah ha hah," the kid bared his teeth at them. "You're funny, pal."

The ribbing quieted as the men left, taking with them their wounded pride and light wallets. The kid—Dean, apparently—looked back at Joe with a smirk.

"I told 'em I'd clean up, but they didn't believe me."

"That trick won't work when you've got a few more years on you," Adam cautioned him. Joe shot him a look, but Adam only looked back innocently.

"You're not supposed to be giving him pointers on how to hustle pool!" Joe snapped. And then it clicked. "Dean."

"Uh... yeah," the man smiled again, a hapless _who, me?_ grin.

"Dean _Winchester_?" Joe clarified. It earned a startled frown and a close look.

"You've got me at a disadvantage, buddy," Dean said dubiously. Joe laughed aloud, aware of the surprised and suspicious looks he was receiving, both from Dean and Adam.

"Unbelievable," Joe said, still grinning at the boy. "You're John's boy, aren't you? I doubt you remember me. You couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve last I saw you." He held out his hand. "Joe Dawson."

The confused look didn't quite fade, but Dean accepted the handshake for what it was and smiled again.

"We moved around a lot," Dean said in apology.

"Your dad dropped you and your little brother off with my neighbor for a few weeks, down in Seacouver," Joe explained, both for Dean's benefit and Adam, who looked a little too curious for his own good. "I took you a couple nights when Trish went out on a date."

"Trish," Dean's eyes lit up in recognition. "Old gal with the cats! You're the guy with the bum legs. Sam kept asking about it. Sorry about that. That kid could never put a cork in it."

Joe laughed again.

"Poor Trish was only thirty-five. Old?" he demanded.

"Hey, I was, like, ten," Dean said, not at all sorry for the mistake. "Anyone out of high school was old. How you been, man? Still play that guitar?"

"Didn't forget _that_ ," Joe remarked.

"Hell no! That thing was awesome!" Dean met Adam's interested stare and grinned. "Dude has a Gibson 69 Hummingbird."

"You should come here Saturday nights," Adam said after a beat. Dean tilted his head in question, and Adam explained. "Blues night. Sometimes Joe plays with the band."

"Really?" Dean looked to Joe for confirmation, and Joe shrugged modestly. The younger man grinned again. "I might be in town that long. I'll make sure to stop by."

"Still living the nomadic life," Joe observed. "Where'd your pop and brother run off to?"

It flashed over the boy's face, barely there for a second, but Joe couldn't miss that. He was certain Adam saw it too. Bastard was good at reading people, just as he'd said. And that last question had stung like a bitch for Dean.

The hurt puppy look was gone in an instant, replaced by a devil-may-care smirk.

"Dad's got a job somewhere else, and Sammy's off at college being the smart son," Dean said flippantly.

There were a host of questions Joe could ask regarding that, but he held his tongue. Quite frankly, he didn't know Dean well enough to pry into _that_ ugly sounding mess.

"That sounds like a story." Apparently Adam did not share his feelings. Well, he probably did, but he obviously had no compunctions ignoring social niceties. Adam rarely did.

Dean's response was not friendly.

"Stories I have," the kid grinned at him. No, not friendly at all. Adam's eyebrows went up. " _That_ is not one."

They looked at each other for a tense moment, but Joe knew Adam. Knew the man wouldn't just let it drop. He was a stubborn _curious_ son of a bitch, and Dean had just piqued his interest. Which meant Joe had to do his duty as barkeep and run damage control.

"What brings you into town?" Joe asked, changing the subject jarringly. It got their attention at least. Dean looked at him, though Adam continued calmly watching the kid.

"Dude, that was the worst segue I've ever heard," Dean said finally. "You—"

A strange, tinny-sounding rock song broke through his mild rebuke. Smiling ruefully, Dean pulled out his cell, glancing at the display and answering.

"Yeah."

Joe exchanged a curious look with Adam at the grimace that flitted over Dean's face at whatever the person at the other end of the call was telling him.

"Son of a bitch," Dean griped. "There goes that then... Nah, I got it. Just hoped it would be easy... Don't even think about it. Look, I can't really talk, man. I'll call you later... Yeah. I'm good... No, I'm _not_ going to church. Fifteen years, you ought to know me better... Yeah, yeah. I'm goin' to hell. I'll talk to you later, man... Sure. Bye."

Joe chuckled. By that smirk on Adam's face, he was not the only one amused by Dean's put upon expression.

"So totally not funny, Joe," Dean griped, but he grinned anyway. "Look, it's been great playing catch up, but I've gotta go. I'll try to swing by Saturday night, so you'd better be playing."

"I aim to please," Joe grinned right back. "Catch you later, kid."

Dean pulled a face and rolled his eyes.

"Dude, I'm twenty-three."

"So you're out of diapers then," Adam said blandly.

"No one likes a smart ass, pal," Dean retorted.

"You must not have very many friends then."

"Shut up."

Joe laughed and made shooing gestures when Dean slapped down a few bills on the counter.

"Get out of here, you punk. God, you haven't grown up at all."

Dean showed all his teeth and stalked out of the bar. But not before Joe could holler out:

"And no more hustling in my bar!"

His response was a one-fingered salute and the bell jangling on the closing door. Joe chuckled and shook his head at the strange coincidence. Adam was watching him, so he slapped his rag down on the bar and shot him a Look as he wiped down the wood.

"You're no better," he declared. "At least I can justify that kid's behavior on his youth."

"I tried being mature once," Adam said snidely. "I got shot for my efforts."

"Oh boohoo," Joe grunted. But he grinned anyway. All the excitement had done a fantastic job in bringing up Adam's mood. For that, he put another bottle of beer in front of his friend. "This one's on me."

 


	2. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has an unfortunate encounter and acquires a stalker.

Thursday, October 31st  


 

If there was one thing Dean hated, it was research. He was more of a doer than a reader. Ironic, since both his dad and his brother excelled at sitting still and poring over books until they found what they needed. When he indulged, he would wonder if he had gotten his impatient traits from his mother. He had been too young to notice those things when she was around, and his dad certainly never commented on it. _Dad never says anything about Mom_.

He had been hoping to avoid this part of the job. Pastor Jim had done a little searching for him, but the town was small, and the local newspaper archives were not posted on the web. Which meant he had to hit the library.

It was old and musty smelling, just barely modernized. Dean would have been pissed if that crotchety old librarian had told him they still operated on the Dewey Decimal System. He would not have been surprised, but it would have irritated him nonetheless. As it was, their computer systems left much to be desired, and he was stuck digging through microfilm and microfiche. His eyes hurt, and he had nothing to show for it.

There was nothing. No suicides, no unsolved deaths, and not a single murder. At least, none relating to the local university.

So what the hell was killing these people, if it wasn't a ghost?

Well, maybe it was. Not everything was reported after all. Which meant the research was going to take him right to a place of evil—school.

It only took a little bit of digging to discover a few cross-reference points. From there it would be all legwork. That, Dean could handle, though he still preferred just pointing and shooting in the right direction. Damn it. One of these days he would get a partner. If he could bring himself to trust anyone other than Sam or Dad. Bobby, maybe? Nah, Bobby would just shuffle him on his way. And Pastor Jim was more of a supporter.

Dean pulled into a parking space, tucking his lot ticket into his pocket and locking the doors before striding across the campus grounds. The place was pretty, all green and tree-filled and crawling with young people. He caught a girl eying him and quirked a smirk her way before continuing on. Later, maybe. Now, he had a job to do.

The first thing he noticed was that the place was friggin' huge. Sure, they called it a small campus university on the website, but they seriously were underestimating their own size. There were over a dozen large buildings sprawled over a three block radius, and all he had was a slip of paper with names on them.

He stopped in front of a brick building, wincing slightly at the institutional appearance. Windows lined four floors, all identical from the outside. A set of stairs led up to the door, beside which was a large plaque, declaring the building's title.

Ferguson Hall.

Nope. That was not on his list.

He continued on his way, stopping several hundred feet away in front of the next building. It was also made of brick, but it was squatter, and the bricks looked older, crumbling away at the foundation.

Kingston Hall.

Damn it.

It took him another fifteen minutes of wandering before he finally stumbled upon yet another brick building that appeared to have the proper name.

Waller Hall.

 _Finally_. He hated doing this during the day, but he really needed to push this one. Three dead people in less than a month was getting to be a high body count. There was a high risk of exposure here—at the very least, he could have someone yell at him and kick him out—but it was the best he could do on short notice. He would have gone to the dorms, but a lot of time had passed since those deaths, and most evidence would have been lost.

Once inside the building, he found the office with ease. There was even a plaque beside it. _Paul Johnston, Ph.D_. A doctor, but not one of the medical type. There was no one else in the hallway, so Dean slipped into the room quickly.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old Walkman he had converted into an EMF reader. It was a little buggy—went absolutely nuts whenever there were big power lines around—but he was pretty proud of how it turned out. Proud and now irritated as the thing remained stubbornly silent.

"Seriously?" Dean grumbled.

It was not like the scene was old. Maybe two days since the guy had died. The carpet was still stained brownish red where the good doctor had bled out—reportedly stuck a pen in his jugular after using it to write his final letter. Dean had purposefully cut himself in the past, but only rarely and when it was necessary for some unpleasant reason. To willingly make a fatal cut spoke of a great amount of desperation. And from what he had gathered on this guy, completely out of his character.

So that was a bust. Plus, he was not nearly as lucky stepping out of the office as he had been going in. The hallway was no longer devoid of human life.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He whipped around and found himself staring at an older man with so much facial hair he could hardly tell there was a scowl on his face. Dean hated getting caught, but he was good at getting out of trouble. He affected a wide-eyed, startled look, which was easier to do since his heart was already pounding in his chest.

"I just wanted to talk to Dr. Johnston," Dean launched into frightened-kid babbling mode. "I just got back in town—my mom had surgery, breast cancer, right?—and I wanted to talk to him. But he's not... and it looks like... that's blood in there!"

The old man in front of him grimaced. Dean resolutely maintained his anxious façade. _Damn_ he was good.

He lasted through several minutes of the old guy's condolences and platitudes before he started getting irritated. Claiming a need to be alone, he escaped down a stairwell and out into the crisp late morning air. That desire to be alone was a load of crap, of course, but some strange old guy was not exactly who Dean had in mind when he went searching for company.

Classes were letting out if the sudden flow of human movement between buildings was any indication. Dean found an empty bench and pulled out his cell phone, contemplating the display of familiar names and numbers for a moment before reluctantly pocketing the device. He had nothing of use to report. Bobby was busy with his own jobs, and Pastor Jim would only tell him to keep digging. His dad probably wouldn't answer his phone. The man rarely did when he was on a job. Dean had to leave a message and wait until he called back.

A girl walked by wearing cat ears—an interesting, if juvenile trend that Dean didn't understand. Then another jogged up behind her, decked out in a witch costume, and he almost forgave the stupid ear-bedecked headband.

It was October 31st. How could he have forgotten _that_ little gem of information? It was not that Dean had anything against the holiday, but he never cared for anything other than the obscene amounts of candy. Because you could never have too much candy. Except that one time when he was eight, and his father forgot to monitor him, and he puked up milk duds all night. He'd eaten nary a dud since. Everything else though, that was okay.

It was just annoying seeing stupid kids running around dressed up like bloodthirsty monsters for _fun_. For years it had not bothered him, but then his brother grew old enough to have an opinion. And Sam resented the hell out of this holiday. Now all Dean could hear was Sam griping about idiots and their stupid pagan candy rituals.

Nothing like a bitchy Sammy to ruin a perfectly tolerable holiday. With candy. Dean would have to stop at a store and get some. This late in the game it was bound to be on super-sale.

Now that he looked, he could see costumes jumping out of the crowd, here and there. An angel. A fairy. Someone dressed in far too many sequins. It was fascinating. He was willing to bet the frat houses would be booming tonight.

The rustle of cloth and a sudden warmth to his left drew his attention from the costumed students to a woman who had apparently decided that his bench was better than all the empty ones lining the sidewalk further down. Normally Dean was not averse to company of the fairer sex. He was usually all over that. The woman beside him _was_ a beauty. Her dress was a bit dated, but hell, it was Halloween, so whatever. Unfortunately, she looked to be about twenty years his senior. Hitting on someone old enough to be his _mom_ was kind of gross.

Dean hoped she thought so too, but he was kind of doubting it. She was staring directly at him, her gaze uncomfortably intense. So help him, if she asked him out to coffee, he was going to throw up.

"Um... can I help you?" he asked, no doubt sounding as awkward as he felt.

The woman smiled, and it was all teeth. Jesus. There was something seriously creepy about this woman. Yeah, sure, pretty. But what kind of freak just sat and stared at a guy who was otherwise minding his own business? Especially when he was _way_ out of her dating age pool.

"You're a hunter," she said.

He would have gone for his gun then and there, but there were an awful lot of people around, and the only person who would be arrested was him. Never mind that he wasn't the one scaring the shit out of the poor bastard beside him.

The woman's smile disappeared in a flash, her eyes softening and only slightly less creepy. Dean was a hair's breadth away from bolting. How bad would it look if he turned tail and ran from a woman?

Shit.

He glared at the freaky woman.

"I'm not trying to start a fight," she said mildly. "I just want to warn you—you should leave town."

Dean could not help it.

He laughed in her face.

"And why would I do that?" he asked, resuming his glower. The lady's face twisted into something resembling concern.

"You will not like what happens should you stay," she said.

"That sounds a little bit like a threat," Dean mused. "Not nice at all, lady."

"It is not a threat, it is a warning," the woman said bluntly. "People are dying. You should go."

"I can't leave, lady," he snapped. "I'm certainly not going because some psycho cougar who really needs to find some other creep to get her rocks off—"

" _Be silent_ , you insolent child."

And just like that, his voice died in his throat. The woman was glaring, clearly pissed off by his attitude. Normally Dean would not care, but she had told him to shut up. _And he had_.

Mouth working, confusion and horror mounting, he realized he couldn't speak. Not a sound would be produced by his throat.

_What the hell?_

He was off the bench and striding away as quickly as he could without actually running.

"Dean..."

There were all sorts of problems he had with her knowing his name. He had even more with that hand reaching for his arm, so he stopped it. The woman looked shocked that he had caught her wrist, but her expression melted back into that irritating sympathetic look when his mouth moved but his throat refused to give voice to the words.

_Don't touch me, bitch!_

"Hey!" The masculine voice close to his ear combined with a big hand wrapping fully around his wrist startled Dean nearly as badly as his inability to speak. He released the woman and jerked back, his first instinct being to get the hell away from this entire situation as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, he did not make it far due to that shockingly strong hand holding him fast. "What's going on here? Cassandra?"

The interloper was about Dean's height but with twice the bulk. Dude looked like he worked out daily. His hand refused to loosen, and he glared between Dean and the woman suspiciously.

"What are you doing here, Cassandra?" the man demanded. Okay, so creepy lady had a name. Very nice. Maybe if he _punched_ the big guy, Dean could break free. Then again, it might just piss him off and get Dean arrested. Choices, choices.

"This boy is a hunter, Duncan," Cassandra said heatedly.

"And you felt the need to reeducate him _here_?" Duncan growled. So far no one else seemed to have noticed this altercation. If he could friggin' _talk_ , Dean could start shouting to the heavens that they were attacking him. If for no other reason than to get these bastards in shit loads of trouble. Because that last question sounded kind of like _Duncan_ felt Cassandra should have jumped Dean in a deserted alley somewhere.

Crap! He was surrounded by creeps! One of them was ridiculously big and strong, the other could shut him up with a command. _What the hell!_

"Did you even get his side of the story?"

"I do not need to know his side to know his life is in danger," she insisted. "I cannot tell you what problems would arise if he were to die here and now."

Dean tugged again at that iron grip, eyeing the weak point where thumb met fingers, then winced when Duncan’s grip tightened. Jesus, that was bone crunching! He was going to be bruised tomorrow.

"Even so, I know what I saw, Cassandra," Duncan glanced over, and Dean found himself caught in the man's disapproving gaze. He cursed, silently _of course_ , and scowled back. Duncan dismissed him for the moment, apparently more concerned with Cassandra. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing that wouldn't pass," Cassandra said defensively.

 _Yeah? Screw you, lady_. Dean so wished he could curse these people out on his own. His silent glower combined with whatever harsh look Duncan offered cowed the woman.

"Just a suggestion that he keep his insolent comments to himself," she muttered. "He insulted me."

Duncan sighed. That and a look were all that were needed, it seemed, to get Cassandra to come to heel. She scowled fiercely and shot Dean a dirty look.

"Very well," she griped. "But mind your tongue, boy."

Dean glared at her. If this wasn't a populated area in the middle of the day, he would have had almost no problem putting a bullet between her eyes. He supposed he was lucky this Duncan guy had stepped in when he had, but the man's methods left much to be desired. However, Dean currently hated him a bit less than he did this psycho woman, so he focused on that.

His first words after several unpleasant minutes of being unable to speak were not overly friendly.

"Get off of me."

The bruising grip vanished, the man relenting with a rueful half-smile. The man was trying to play nice now, but Dean was not in the mood. He wanted the crazy woman dead.

"You are not needed, _Hunter_ ," Cassandra said disdainfully. "You should just leave town now."

"Screw you, bitch," Dean snarled. "You try that shit on me again, and I will spit on that don't-hit-a-woman rule."

"Perhaps we should take this elsewhere," Duncan suggested. "My office is—"

"Behind closed doors with _her_?" Dean snorted. "Not a chance. You all can go to hell."

With that, he stalked away, body tense and prepared for someone to stop him. No one did. Good thing, too, or he might have decked whoever tried. Scratch that, he was on a hair trigger. He might have pulled a gun on anyone daring to touch him. Dean was pretty sure the police frowned on people bringing loaded weapons to a school of any sort.

He chanced a look over his shoulder when he reached the parking lot. No one was following him. The weird guy and that crazy chick were gone as far as he could tell. He whipped out his phone and hit the speed dial, hissing when it went to voice mail.

"Bobby, it's me," Dean growled. "I need to know what the hell kind of creature can make a person do what it wants just by telling it what to do. Call me back."

And wasn't this just a big pile of crap he had landed in? Dean huddled in his car, trying his best to ignore the fact that he was shaking. Yeah, this was just _peachy_.

He kicked on the heater and peeled out of the parking lot to hit the library. Again.

 

* * *

 

It was not that Duncan disliked Cassandra. The woman had saved his life in the past. A couple times. He was just in the unfortunate position of being friends with a few people who did not get along very well. As in, one would be dead if left alone too long in the other's presence. Literally.

He understood that Cassandra often meant well. It was just that her methods usually left much to be desired.

"What the hell do you mean he's a hunter?" he asked once he got her into his office, the door closed on any potential eavesdropper. It was a good thing Methos wasn't here, he belatedly thought. The man should have been on campus somewhere, but he probably turned tail the instant he realized Cassandra was in the vicinity. Bad history and all.

"I mean, Duncan, that he _hunts_ ," she said, her irritability strong now that she had lost her target. Duncan had held her back from following the boy—Dean Winchester, she called him—and she was not happy about losing whatever control she thought she had. Which was not much. Duncan knew fear when he saw it, and behind that anger had been a lot of it. Cassandra had scared the crap out of him, and his fight-or-flight instinct had been warring just below the surface. "There are men—mortals usually—who track and kill things which are not human."

"So what?" The woman was making less sense than usual. "Since when are you an animal rights activist?"

"Not animals, Duncan," Cassandra snapped. "Creatures... Demons. Spirits. Shapeshifters. _Things_."

He frowned at her warily.

"You're having me on," he said dubiously.

"That boy's mind is riddled with a past of nightmare encounters," Cassandra said darkly.

"What will he think of immortals?" Duncan demanded. "You felt it. He's—"

"I saw the future here, Duncan," she cut him off. "That boy has a destiny. If he dies here, the very world will hang over the pit of Hell and be swallowed whole."

"So you tried to run him off," he sighed. "I've seen his type, Cassandra. He's stubborn and not easily scared away. You won't be able to reason with that. Is there anything else we can do to keep him safe while he's in town?"

It was not an option Cassandra liked. But Duncan was stubborn as well, and she had never been able to push him around as easily as she would have liked.

"He'll need backup," she said finally.

That, of course, was easier said than done.

 

* * *

 

The bar was a little busier that night than it had been Wednesday. Good old Thirsty Thursday. Some students trickled in, all ones Joe knew. He had a reputation as a hard ass, and those who were under twenty-one knew better than to try his patience. The ones over the legal drinking age were allowed in, but no booze was ever allowed out, tap or bottle. Especially bottle.

Adam was there again. Joe cajoled him into helping out, much to the man’s chagrin. Occasionally a few students would recognize their esteemed professor behind the bar and give him plenty of crap. Adam, however, was good with crap.

"Just remember who grades your papers when you pay," he would say with a shit-eating grin. He got the best tips.

Dean was back as well. After greeting Joe, looking a lot less cheerful than he had the previous night, he camped out at a table with his nose in a big encyclopedic book and proceeded to ignore everyone around him but the waiter. Even then he only spared Pete a moment to order his drink and a burger before diving back into his reading.

"Never would have pegged the kid as the studious type," Joe remarked to Adam.

Adam, the world's very own student, glanced over at the boy briefly before turning back to his task of restocking the glasses.

"He's not," he said bluntly. "He's the type who will do what's necessary to get the job done."

"So the study session..." Joe murmured.

"Necessary evil," Adam smirked, then tensed.

Joe didn't even have to look at him to know he was looking at the door. What did surprise him was the way Dean suddenly went rigid, his head snapping up to glower at the entrance.

"Holy shit," Joe growled. "Adam."

"MacLeod's here," Adam offered helpfully.

"Yeah, I can see that," Joe snapped. "The kid—immortal?"

Adam's eyes flicked over to the kid again, noting with interest the way Dean glared at MacLeod and how the Highlander stiffened but still continued over to the bar.

"He's facing the entrance, Joe," he said finally. "Did the same thing yesterday. Kid's a little paranoid, I'd say. Though from the looks of it, he and MacLeod have met."

Joe lifted his eyebrows and turned to offer Duncan MacLeod his silent demand for answers. Adam had a vaguely similar expression, but Joe expected his was tinged with far more amusement.

"Hey, Joe," MacLeod greeted a bit stiffly. "Adam."

"I see you're making friends," Adam said wryly. He poured MacLeod a drink and slid the glass over the bar.

"Very funny," MacLeod caught the glass and sat. "He still there?"

"He's not going anywhere until that burger is done," Joe said with a grin. "Kid a friend of yours?"

"I may have rubbed him wrong earlier," MacLeod admitted. "Cassandra showed up."

"I thought I smelled her perfume," Adam grunted.

Joe grimaced and contemplated pouring himself a shot. He never had liked Cassandra. Plus, she and Adam got on like fire and oil. If she sparked something, he would burn without hopes of stopping until he wrecked everything around him. Joe had seen it happen once. He was not up for seeing it again.

"Please tell me she's not here to cause trouble."

"She had a vision involving that kid," MacLeod explained. "Says he'll die if he's left to his own devices here."

"Not our problem, MacLeod," Adam said. The bastard always had been a little too cold. Joe still had a hard time accepting it.

"You can't be serious!" he protested. "I used to babysit that kid. I can't just sit back and let him bite it."

"Not like it'd be permanent," Adam grunted. "Kid's pre-immortal. He'll be fine as long as he doesn't get his head ripped off."

The man seemed genuinely surprised at the twin looks of disgust he received.

"Still not our problem," he reiterated.

"If Cassandra's right, then it is," MacLeod said darkly. "Apparently Dean's got some big destiny that he can't fulfill if he's immortal."

"And I'm sure it's all vague as hell and doom and gloom on the planet," Adam groaned. "Damn her predictions! MacLeod, you need better friends."

"I'm sorry you have such a poor opinion of yourself," MacLeod shot back. "The point now is to watch the kid's back."

"Let me guess," Adam smirked. "You've gotten yourself blacklisted. Well, Joe's out of the question. Kid like that, I'd say send Amanda in, but she's still playing house with that cop."

"Which leaves you, incidentally," Joe said smugly.

Adam winced and sighed.

"The things I do for you people."

 

* * *

 

He had gone by Adam for a long time. It was a good name, generic and solid. Oh, and nearly untraceable. There were so very many Adam Piersons in the English-speaking world. It had been a long time, though. A bit over twenty-five years now. He was going to have to switch up soon.

Though if he kept hanging out with Duncan-bloody-Highlander-MacLeod, it might not make a difference. Sometimes he wondered if he might as well go screaming his true identity over the hilltops for all the quiet he got around MacLeod.

For instance, now he was tailing some kid who had apparently bitten off more than he could chew. Oh, the kid didn't know it yet, would probably be all bluster and bravado and insist he didn't need help, but there you were. Rather, there Adam was. Right smack in the middle of a Hunt. With a capital H. If only Cassandra and her irritating visions of the future would be more useful in telling him exactly when and where he would need to be to keep Dean alive. Or what the kid was hunting. That would be helpful.

He was tempted to just follow the kid around and leap in when things looked like they were getting a little rough. Unfortunately, he did not think that was going to work. He had been following Dean for nearly half an hour, and the guy had yet to pull up to a hotel or house. Adam thought hotel, since it was obvious the kid wasn't staying around long and probably didn't really know anyone. The town wasn't that big, and it should not take this long to get _anywhere_.

Adam had the sneaking suspicion he had been made. He was proven right when that big black muscle car pulled into the dark parking lot of a long-closed business. Any man with a lust for living would be wise and keep driving. Ditch the chase and disappear.

Unfortunately for Adam, he had made a promise.

"Damn it," he muttered, pulling up behind Dean's car and stopping. The kid was already out of the vehicle and stalking back to his window, a storm on his shadowed face. Adam wondered if he should go for levity as he pushed his door open and rose to meet the kid.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded, stopping once he realized Adam was getting out of the car, keeping well out of striking range. It reinforced what Adam had suspected before—this kid had military quality training. "Why are you following me?"

"You're not going to like the reason," Adam said ruefully.

"I don't like that you're following me," Dean retorted.

"Fair point," Adam murmured. "I spoke with MacLeod."

"Who the hell is MacLeod?" Seriously? Usually Mac was all with the _I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod_.

"Big guy, white knight complex?" Adam sighed at Dean's continued blank stare. "Harassed you on campus today?"

It hardly seemed possible, but Dean looked even more irritated. That was putting it mildly, of course. The kid looked flat out pissed.

"Now, Cassandra and I are not really what you call bosom buddies, but I _do_ know she has a knack for knowing things," Adam explained. "And if she says you're going to die, then you're going to die. So the verdict is: you get backup as long as you're in town."

He leaned against his car, the little Volvo not nearly as impressive as the big Chevy Dean drove, and waited while the kid processed. All the while, he studied Dean, noticing things and drawing a few more conclusions.

There were trust issues here. Not just with Adam, but with the world in general. From the instant he had walked into the bar the previous night it had been obvious. Dean walked in, cased the joint, and then placed himself within sight of all exits. His initial response to Joe had been outwardly friendly, but the wariness lurked, just out of sight. His retort had been lighthearted but designed to get answers.

Plus, the kid was carrying. Nothing like what Adam had in his back seat, but he had seen the discrepancy in the way the kid's jacket moved over his back. It was heavy leather, but Adam knew what to look for. He had many years of practice searching out weapons which could potentially hurt him.

So, the kid was a Hunter of paranormal beasties, and he still carried a gun. What kind of life did this boy lead?

"Okay, let's say I accept that," Dean said, a moment later. "Why do you people even care?"

"Me? I don't," Adam replied, then realized how that sounded. Not really the best way to get the kid to like him, but... oh well. Too late now. "But MacLeod believes Cassandra's hooey about the fate of the world and your continued roll in it. _He's_ the one who cares, and I'm just the schmuck who jumps when MacLeod flashes those pretty brown eyes."

Dean flinched and gave him a dubious look. It was one Adam was used to seeing. Far from bothering him, he found it amusing. Let the kid think what he would.

"So why didn't MacLeod come himself?" Dean asked after an uncomfortable silent moment.

"He was under the impression that you didn't like him," Adam said.

"Well he sprained my wrist, so I think I've got the right," Dean growled. He heaved a sigh then and lifted his eyes heavenward. "The only way I'm going to be rid of you is if I shoot you, isn't it?"

"That's debatable," Adam murmured, earning a sharp look. He shrugged. "No, you don't have a choice, kid. You can either accept my help gracefully, or I send you packing like Cassandra wanted."

"You."

Oh, the skepticism. Adam was aware he didn't look like much. He was tall but lanky, draped in oversized clothes and generally sharper of tongue than anything else. He liked it that way. Being underestimated was one of the best ways to keep his head on his shoulders.

"Adam Pierson." He held out a hand in greeting. "At your service."

Dean looked at the hand, at Adam's open face, then smirked.

"No way am I falling for that shit," he declared. "Last time I tousled, your friend put me down with one hand."

"I don't know," Adam let his hand drop. "In a down and dirty fight, you might actually beat MacLeod."

"Only because I'd shoot him before he could get close again," Dean snorted. "Dude's a friggin' brick wall. What about you?"

"Me?" Adam's eyebrows lifted, his grin matching Dean's for an instant. "Oh, I _invented_ dirty fighting."

At that, Dean actually laughed aloud.

"All right, Adam Pierson," he said finally. "Since I can't get rid of you, what do you propose we do?"

"Get your stuff out of whatever crappy motel you're staying at and plop you on my couch," Adam said bluntly. He headed off that dubious look, "Sleep with your gun under your pillow if it makes you feel better, but I'm not letting you out alone. That's the deal, kid."

"I get it, but, uh..." Dean grimaced and looked profoundly uncomfortable. Adam couldn't blame him. The situation was weird. But he really hoped the kid would just suck it up. "I don't... I'm not..."

"What? You snore?" Adam prodded. Insensitive, perhaps, but it drew the desired results. Dean scowled.

"No!" the kid snarled. "Whatever, man. All my stuff is in the car, so lead the goddamned way."

"I have a better idea," Adam pulled a pen and paper out of his pocket—one of those perks of being a college professor was that he always kept both on hand—and sketched down a few words and an address. He held out the paper to Dean, who took it with a frown. "That's the way to my apartment. I'll follow _you_ there."

"I could lose you if I wanted," Dean said, his tone pragmatic rather than brashly overconfident. He accepted this as fact, but Adam knew better.

"No, you really couldn't," he said, just as mild. "Just do it, kid."

"It's Dean," came the irritable response. But Dean returned to his car and got in. Adam climbed into his own vehicle and started the engine as the taillights of the Chevy lit up. He was only a little surprised that Dean drove calmly out of the lot and turned right, following the directions he had been given.

~

Dean did not like this situation one bit. The day had not gone well for him and it wasn't looking to be a good ending. Bobby had called him back with bupkis. There were reports of post-hypnotic suggestions actually working, but nothing to the level which Dean had experienced. Some witches could cast spells, but that usually required a lot more legwork than just saying it. That was something, at least. Dean _hated_ witches. They were usually prime examples of everything bad in both humanity and the supernatural. Because there wasn't much of the supernatural world that took regular people and changed them for the better.

He was a prime example of that.

Then, there was Adam.

Under normal circumstances, Dean thought he might actually like him. Unfortunately for the guy, Dean did not take well to being coerced. He was pissed and scared, and that did not bode well for how this night was truly going to end. His first inclination was to call for _real_ backup, but it was one easily dismissed. Even if he wasn't working, it would take Bobby at least two days to get out here. Caleb... well, Dean didn't much like the guy. He certainly didn't trust him. And his father? He wasn't about to call home every time things got a little hairy. The senior Winchester would never let him take his own hunts if he couldn't prove himself capable of handling a few curve balls thrown his way.

So he was stuck. At least the guy's apartment didn't look too bad. There was off-street parking, and the building looked well kept. If the inside was half as nice as the outside, this place was far better than any Dean had stayed in the past twenty years.

Adam came strolling up wearing a trench coat Dean hadn't noticed him wearing before. If the guy had been wearing it earlier, Dean might have had second thoughts about this. Well, third or fourth thoughts. He was pretty sure second thoughts had already come and gone. That coat concealed something large and heavy, and he was fairly certain it wasn't a bottle of booze.

"Mi casa es su casa," Adam chirped. Dean glared at him but shouldered his bag and traipsed alongside the jerk. "I'm not going to attack you, Dean. Believe it or not, you're safer here than you are alone in some dingy motel."

"Yeah, well tell that to the little Dad in my head telling me not to go home with strange men," Dean shot back.

"Is that what common sense is supposed to sound like?" Adam asked. "If only I'd had a dad to set me straight, the many stupid things I might not have done."

Dean snorted but glanced at the man beside him, interest piqued.

"Where was your dad?" he asked. Probably rude, but the guy had bullied him relentlessly into spending the night, so he figured he was due.

"No idea," Adam shrugged.

"Just you and your mom then?"

"Nope, just me." Adam led him up two flights of stairs and down the hall to an unremarkable door. "Product of the system, I suppose you might say."

"Sorry, man. That sucks." It really did. Dean could not imagine what he would have done if it had been more than his mother who had died when he was a kid. His dad was hard on him, but at least he was there for him. Sometimes. Less since that blowout with Sam.

"Ancient history." Adam waved him off and let him into the apartment. Dean looked around the studio, a little surprised by the décor. It was like modern living met the National Historical Society. Most of the furniture looked normal, but the stuff around it was straight out of a museum. Frankly, Dean was afraid he might break something. "Besides, you know what it's like."

He sounded so certain. Dean really did not like that.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he grumbled.

"Well, you were adopted, weren't you?" Wide-eyed, positive of his own statement. It was extremely offensive.

"What?" Dean glared at him. "What the hell, dude? No, I wasn't adopted!"

Adam looked a bit startled, then shuttered his gaze.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I must have misheard it. My mistake."

Dean found it hard to remain angry when the man looked like that. It was like he hoped for some sort of bond to be made, but Dean had slammed that door in his face. Fortunately, Adam did not let it remain awkward for long. He locked his door and set the alarm—child's play, Dean thought—and strode into the room, tossing his coat on the bed as he went. It fell too heavily, a little metallic sounding, and Dean wondered again what was in there.

"Sofa's there, beer in the fridge if you're so inclined," Adam said as he went. "It's late, so now we sleep. In the morning you can tell me exactly what kind of hunt you're on, and I'll see if my local contacts can be of any service. Joe's got a network like you wouldn't believe."

"Yeah, for normal things," Dean muttered. "This ain't a bounty hunt, buddy. I'm not looking for a bail jumper."

"I never said you were," Adam said, his tone a bit too mild. "Bathroom is in here. And please don't try to make a run for it. Because even if you make it past me—and I'm a very light sleeper, mind you—you're not leaving town anytime soon, and I'll just track you down again. And then I'll handcuff myself to you, and you really don't want that kind of invasive presence."

"Sounds kinky, but I'm not into guys," Dean snarked, more out of habit than any real heat. He was tired, and this was just getting to be irritating. But Adam was watching him with a cocked eyebrow, so he relented, completely exasperated. "Fine! I promise, okay? Me, the couch, and my binky here—" He waved his loaded Colt, noting with interest that Adam didn't so much as _blink_ at the firearm so close to him. There was a story there; that much was for certain. "So lay off, okay? And you'd better have some breakfast for me, you freakin' kidnapper."

"Kidnapper!" Adam laughed. "Kid, if you'd have just left town like we asked, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Blackmail and kidnapping." And just to be pissy, Dean pointed at the bracing bandage around his right wrist. " _Assault_. I think I have a case even without the witchcraft."

"Witchcraft?" Aw shit. Adam jumped a little too quickly on that one. Although his reaction was interesting—less frightened and more irritated. "You mean Cassandra used her Voice on you?"

"If by voice you mean that freaky thing she did where she made me friggin' _mute_ because I pissed her off, then yeah," Dean kicked off his shoes and fell back on the sofa with petulant glee. "She's a real charmer."

Adam scowled and pulled off his sweater, leaving him in a tee shirt and jeans.

"Sorry about that, kid," he said.

There wasn't much to be said to that, so Dean shrugged and yanked on the afghan draped over the arm of the couch. If it had been another situation with someone he liked, he might have said something reassuring. It wasn't as though Adam had been the one to attack him, after all. Unfortunately for him, he had been the one to stalk him all over town late at night and then proceed to force him into this extraordinarily awkward situation.

Then again, it sounded as though he had been pushed into this as well. People he cared about wanted him to do something. Dean knew something about that. If Sam asked it of him, he would jump off the Empire State Building.

Crap. He was so not identifying with his kidnapper.

"Good night, kid."

"Yeah, whatever, grandpa."

Adam snorted. Dean tried to ignore him while he moved around the studio apartment. This stupid case was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. Now, not only was there no sign of ghost activity, but he was being yanked around by the locals.

Yeah. This place sucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highlander point of note: Immortals are all foundlings. This is where I get AU with Supernatural, though I will provide what I hope to be a plausible explanation.


	3. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday starts with the typical bit of research...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do toss a few names around in here that I expect no one to know. They are original characters meant to move the story along.

Friday, November 1st  


 

The kid suffered from nightmares. From what Adam understood, he was entitled to them. According to what Joe had been able to dig up, Dean had been raised into this hellish lifestyle. The paperwork indicated a lifetime of moving from town to town, rarely staying in any one place more than a month or two. Curiously, there was no credit report after 1984. Joe had tracked the Winchesters through school records.

It was just as Dean had said. Sam was the smart one, claiming a 4.0 average despite never lasting long in any one school until his junior year. After that, he seemed to have settled in to one place, probably old enough to stay alone while his father ran all over the country. Now he was stationed in Palo Alto, California, coasting through Stanford on a full ride. Kid must be a prodigy to manage that.

Dean, on the other hand, barely pulled through with a 2.0 average until he apparently dropped out of high school when he turned 16. He got his GED three years later—fairly decent score, surprisingly—and then dropped off the grid like his father.

Adam did not like it. This kind of thing was commonplace in the nineteenth century, but not in the now. Twenty-first century folk did not just fling themselves happily into being nonentities. Not unless they had a very good reason or some sort of mental deficiency. Dean's father had been pushing thirty when he took his kids with him on his twenty-year-long cross-country field trip, an action seemingly instigated by his wife's sudden and rather violent death, so it could be either reason. But since Dean seemed fairly stable, he was willing to bet it was more than simple insanity that prompted the lifestyle.

If Adam were to hazard a guess, he would say something nasty had killed Mary Winchester. John Winchester, out of his mind with grief, had made it his mission in life to track down whatever unpleasant beast had done his wife in.

Adam knew the feeling. He hadn't lost anyone close to a demon or ghost, but he had definitely gone vengeful god on another man before.

At seven, Adam put on some coffee. While he was more of a tea person, he had the feeling Dean would appreciate a good brew. Especially after a night of restless movement on a couch in a strange man's home. Adam had not been exaggerating about his own light sleeping habits. In spite of his nightmares, Dean was actually a quiet sleeper. Even so, every time he grunted or mumbled under his breath and turned, Adam would raise into partial awareness. His senses would track the kid's location, and when he found him still on the sofa, Adam would drift back into sleep. It did not make for the most restful night, but he was used to running on less. The nature of immortality did not mean he could go without sleep, but it did act as a buffer when he did not get enough.

He had to wonder how Dean would react if he knew about immortals. Probably not well. He hoped he would not have to break that bit of news to the kid—or if he did, that he could be far away from his guns and knives when it happened.

Dean woke quietly. Adam was busy checking his email, and he would have missed it but for the sudden movement where the kid checked his watch. He found it interesting how casual Dean behaved, pushing his blanket back, sitting up and rubbing his face like he was perfectly comfortable in the place. The wry look Dean shot him belied that outward ease.

"Coffee?" Adam offered.

"Whatever."

He wandered over and accepted the coffee anyway, not bothering with the cream or sugar Adam had put out for him. Typical tough guy but odd for a young person. Even Adam hated drinking coffee without loading it up with sugar.

Dean had slept in the jeans and tee shirt he wore the previous day, probably another reason why he had not slept well. Jeans were terrible for comfortable sleeping. Still, he looked alert, eyeing the laptop in front of Adam with some caution.

"It won't bite," Adam said dryly. "You smell. Go take a shower."

He had showered while the kid was still sleeping and was a bit surprised it had not woken Dean. He was not going to complain about small favors, but it was odd.

Dean snorted and drained his coffee before snatching up his bag and disappearing into the bathroom. The shower started up moments later, and Adam allowed himself a moment to completely relax.

He hated hanging out with pre-immortals. It was, for lack of a better word, awkward. Especially now that he realized Dean was convinced his folks were actually his biological parents. Just chalk one more up for the bastard father. Immortals never knew where they came from. Not only had John Winchester dragged his children down into the gutter with him, but at least one of them had not even been his.

Adam disliked the man intensely, and he had not even met him.

His cell phone interrupted his moment of self-righteousness, thank god. Adam never did well with that particular emotion, and it was just as well he ignored it. He glanced at the display and answered.

"MacLeod!" he greeted, all cheer and mild hatred. He wasn't letting the Highlander off for this one. It was his fault he was stuck with boy wonder, after all. "My favorite person!"

 _"Methos."_ MacLeod was going to ignore his acerbic wit this morning it seemed. Probably just as well. When they fought, it tended to be a little melodramatic, fists flying, swords clashing, lethal shootings—the works. _"Are you still with Dean?"_

"He now hates me as well as you and Cassandra," Adam assured him. "He hasn't shot me yet, so I'd say things are going swimmingly."

 _"Good."_ Damn MacLeod for being so oblivious when it came to sarcasm. Well, not oblivious—Adam knew for a fact that he understood it—but he was choosing to brush him off. The jerk didn't even ask how he was. _"Look, I have some bad news."_

"More? Lay it on me," Adam grumbled.

_"Jennifer Abram is dead."_

"God _damn_ it, MacLeod!" He was pacing the floor before he even realized he had risen. "When? How?"

_"Last night. She had an accident on the bridge—her car went into the river. The police think she fell asleep behind the wheel."_

"Jenny never went to sleep before three AM," Adam snapped. "I don't buy it, MacLeod. This is bullshit!"

Dean came out of the bathroom in clean clothes, his whole bearing screaming with tension as he warily watched Adam pace.

_"She might have been drunk, but until the tox-screens come back, they won't—"_

"She wasn't drunk," Adam insisted. "What the hell is going on, MacLeod? I'm starting to get annoyed with all of this."

_"I'm sorry, Methos. I know she was a friend."_

"Yeah, forget it." He hated when MacLeod got all sympathetic. For once he would appreciate it if the guy just clapped him on the shoulder and dragged him to the bar to get tremendously drunk. "Look, I've got to go. Get your damned suit out. You're going to her funeral if I have to."

_"Methos..."_

" _Later_ , _Highlander_."

Angry did not describe how he felt at the moment. It was so much more than that, and yet he was stuck here babysitting a guy who should have just been sent packing. Worse, the kid he was watching was pre-immortal. Why was it so horrible for him to come into his immortality young? He was over twenty-one. He could join the military, smoke, drink, drive. If he was a child or too old, that would be one thing. Child immortals were never stable, and the elderly tended to get picked off right away. Dean was a strong, skilled young man. There was no reason for Adam to be watching out for him. Again, Adam cursed Cassandra and her troublesome predictions.

"There was another death," Dean said softly.

Adam looked at him. Surely the kid was not that stupid. But no... that look was not a consoling, simpering expression. That was one which belonged on someone set to complete a task. He was not sure which was worse.

"Don't even go there, kid," Adam cautioned him.

"That's four people dead in a month," Dean ignored his advice. "These people weren't supposed to die, and you know it. You _said_ it."

"You are _not_ going to make a mockery of the lives of the people here!" Adam snarled.

" _I'm_ not!" Dean got right back in his face, stubbornly going toe-to-toe against Adam's anger. "Are you going to sit back and let it happen again?"

The sound that Adam made then was not pleasant. Inarticulate rage was all he could express without full-out striking the boy in front of him. He turned his back on Dean and went to the cupboard, pulling out a mug and the fixings for tea with quiet, controlled violence.

Dean, thankfully, remained quiet. By the time he had gathered his wits about him, he had a hot cup of tea, and Dean was sitting at the table with an open bottle of beer. A little early to start that, but Adam wasn't one to judge. He sat in the other chair and let out a slow breath.

"What do you know about the people who died?" Dean asked softly. Adam glared at him, but Dean kept his face completely devoid of expression.

"Worked with two of them," he said finally. "One was my student. The other, just a kid. What do you know?"

"Jack shit," Dean said bluntly. "That's why I'm asking you. You just got news of someone else—how did she die?"

Adam sighed and offered the kid a halfhearted glare.

"Your bedside manner needs work," he declared. "Jenny Abram. She had a car wreck last night. Doesn't sound much like it's up your alley, does it?"

“Maybe not. Let's go check the wreckage and find out," Dean suggested. Adam looked up, watching curiously as the kid pulled his gun out of the back waistband of his pants, checked it, and put it back. On came the leather jacket, and he was apparently ready. He met Adam's bland stare expectantly. "You're the one who wanted to play shadow with me."

As if he needed the reminder. Adam sighed and got up, grabbing his own coat. Dean regarded him a bit too closely, but he was not much in the mood to indulge. Instead, he chose to grumble. The day was already off to a bad start. He was entitled to a bit of whining.

"Damn woman and her blasted visions," he muttered, locking the door behind them while Dean waited patiently. "Tibet! Tibet is nice this time of year. Why am I not in Tibet?"

"Because it only has mountains and snow and monks?" Dean ventured. Adam looked at him. No one ever responded to him when he complained like this.

"That and their food wreaks havoc on the digestion," he said a moment later. "It's your game, kid. We'll take your car."

Dean snorted.

"Well, _yeah_."

* * *

_"Either you get me to that wreckage, or I'll do something really illegal, and you'll be my accomplice."_

It had been spoken cheerfully, tauntingly, but utterly sincere. The kid was a loose cannon—somehow worse than MacLeod. He was reckless and armed, and it was not the best combination in Adam's opinion. It made him wonder what had possessed this kid's father— _not father, child abuser—_ to push this kid out on his own. Without someone tempering him, Dean was a dangerous man. Adam did not see him harming anyone innocent, but he would not be surprised if the kid walked headlong into something which got himself killed.

Cassandra had warned them.

Adam Pierson was known and well liked and so obviously grief-stricken that the sheriff felt the need to take him to the break room for a cup of coffee. He could practically hear MacLeod's laughter while he took the cup with hands that visibly trembled.

"It's just so out of character for her," he said, pained bewilderment coloring his words. "I don't understand how this could have happened."

"We never _really_ know people, right, Professor?" Sheriff Gunderson drawled sympathetically. "Maybe she was stressed out, or didn't get enough sleep the night before. Tox screen was clean. She just lost control of the car."

"I just can't believe she's dead!"

Cue the waterworks. Well, he had never been that good at forcing tears, but he was just sad enough that his eyes swam a bit when he thought hard about it. MacLeod had not been mistaken. Jenny had been a good friend and colleague. Her death was a damned waste.

Gunderson handed him a tissue, and he blew his nose noisily. Snuffling for effect, he wondered how long Dean would need. Getting the Sheriff out of the main office had ensured the other two officers would remain close at hand unless another emergency was called in. It was a small town, even with the school. Not a big budget for a lot of staff. The impound lot should be close to empty.

"Sorry," Adam collected himself and rubbed the back of his neck wearily. That much was hardly an act. Maybe he could convince Dean to let MacLeod babysit him for a while so he could catch a short nap. "It's just such a shock."

"Not a problem, Professor," the sheriff assured him. "If there is anything I can do for you, or any of Miss Abram's friends and family, I am happy to do it."

"Better guard rails?" Adam gave a strained chuckle, which he quickly stifled. Gallows humor was often considered offensive, and he was not out to alienate the police. "Sorry. That was inappropriate."

"We all deal with loss in our own ways," Gunderson replied pragmatically. "I'm not offended. And you can be sure we _are_ looking into it."

Adam swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well—"

His cell chirped. Offering the sheriff an apologetic grimace, he glanced at the display, then frowned. He didn't recognize the number. Lifting it cautiously to his ear, wary of who he would hear on the other end, he answered.

"Hello?"

_"I'm out, man. I'll swing by and pick you up out front."_

_Dean?_ When the hell had the kid gotten his number?

"Thanks. I'll see you in a minute."

He hung up and sniffed once more for good measure before smiling tiredly at Gunderson.

"My ride," he offered as explanation. "I have to go now. Thank you for your time. Sorry I'm such a wreck."

"I'm here to serve, Professor," Gunderson rose and held out his hand. Adam shook it and let himself be led back to the front of the building. The sheriff walked him all the way to the door, just to keep things as awkward as possible in Adam's opinion. He was surprised, though, when the man gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Now that's a beautiful car. I think I'd recall seeing that baby around."

"It's my cousin's car," Adam lied smoothly. "He just came in town Wednesday to visit for the week."

"Be sure to compliment him on his cherry ride," Gunderson said with a boyish grin. Adam sighed and nodded.

"Of course, Sheriff. Thank you for your time."

"Take care, Professor. You be sure to call if you ever need anything."

"I'll do that!"

He could not get away fast enough. Dean met his dirty glare with a smirk, then put the car into gear and pulled smoothly into the light traffic. It looked like they were headed toward the university.

"Tell me you have a lead, and I did not just spend the past fifteen minutes blubbering like an idiot in front of the town sheriff for nothing," Adam said finally, wiping away the last remnants of tears.

"I found something alright." Dean tossed something small at him, and Adam automatically caught it. It was a sack, easily concealed in the palm of his hand. He frowned at Dean, who was too busy driving to notice, but he answered the unspoken question anyway. "It's a hex bag. We're dealing with a witch."

 _Shit_.

"A witch," he echoed dismally. Surely not. Cassandra _wouldn't_. There was no motive for her!

"Yeah," Dean pulled a face. "Man, I frigging _hate_ witches! We're going to have to start interviewing the victims' families and friends."

Therein was a problem. Adam cleared his throat uneasily.

"Dean, this is not a big university," he pointed out. "And some of these people died weeks ago. It will look pretty strange if I come around just now asking questions."

"Yeah?" Dean looked like he could not possibly care less. "Wait in the car."

"I'm not letting you go anywhere alone," Adam insisted. "The police department was pushing it. These people just lost someone they care about. We don't know how they' react to you."

"That whole death omen thing, right," Dean rolled his eyes. "What do you suggest we do then? 'Cause I'm fresh out of ideas."

"I was thinking a subtler approach," Adam murmured. "Turn left at the next light."

Dean shot him a wary look but did as he was told.

* * *

Anger was just one of a half dozen bad things Dean felt at the moment. There were many levels of rage simmering just below a full on boil. Anger at the betrayal—he had actually, _stupidly_ trusted Adam to work well with him. Anger at the fear—because, damn it, that bastard MacLeod had nearly broken his wrist, and he was suddenly trapped in a room with him and his best friggin' friend. (It was also possible they were lovers, which made it all that much more dangerous.) Anger at his own humiliation—now they _knew_ just how stupid he was to have gone along with this farce. And anger for the sake of itself. Because Dean did angry so damn well.

There was a tried and true way to solve cases like this. It was time consuming, gaining a certain level of trust so people would just talk to him. Then, he would be led to others, perhaps several others, and he would begin to narrow the field. And then he would go and gank himself a witch. None of this was happening while he was under house arrest, in the care of a man who had recently injured him.

If his father ever found out about this, he would rip Dean a new one.

Not that MacLeod's house wasn't nice. It was a sleek little bachelor pad with a kitchen straight out of a cable network cooking show. Adam obviously felt right at home, his feet on the coffee table and a laptop resting on his thighs. His fingers tapped away at the computer while MacLeod moved around the kitchen making lunch.

Quite frankly, Dean could do without lunch if it meant MacLeod would stop circling about long enough for him to easily watch both men.

"You can relax, you know," Adam said, never taking his eyes off the computer screen. "You're safer here—"

"—than I am in my crap-hole motel, yeah. I got it," Dean glared at him. How dare that little bastard try to comfort him? Now? Here? _Dean_ was the stupid one, right? Or was he just a slightly greater kind of dumb than these idiots around him? "Forgive me if I'm a bit _tense_ around my _kidnappers_."

"Kidnappers," MacLeod echoed, tossing Adam an incredulous look. Yeah. Also idiots. Dean could not believe he was stuck like this with such stupid people. It really didn't say much for his own capacity. "Seriously?"

"Kid's got a point, MacLeod," Adam said distantly, ever tapping away at the damned computer. "It was coercion I used to get him to stay with me. Not that _Dean_ couldn't just shoot me if he wanted to."

"I'm not into the whole murder thing," Dean retorted. "I'm still up in the air on torture shots, though. Right now, I'm feeling quite strongly about shooting your kneecaps out, and then that laptop. Just for the kick-in-the-teeth factor."

"You wouldn't like what I'd do to you in return, kid," Adam said wryly.

" _See_?" Dean pointed at the asshole accusingly. " _That's_ the kind of shit I'm talking about! That was a freaky-ass scary threat. _Way_ worse than the one I gave. What the hell is wrong with you people? Why can't you just call the cops on me with bogus charges and run me out of town like normal people?"

That had been a bad thing to say. MacLeod and Adam looked at each other, surprise clearly etched on their faces.

"I hadn't thought of that," MacLeod murmured. "Think it'd work?"

"Not funny, asshole!" Dean snarled before the conversation could continue. "Just... what the hell are you doing anyway, geek-man?"

" _Geek_ -man," Adam drawled. "How creative. For your information, _little boy_ , I am hacking the phone company and cross referencing the records of the victims. After that, I thought I'd move to email—I can track the school-provided addresses of everyone killed at the university—and see who they've been talking to and what they've been saying."

"Is this going to take a long time?"

"To get the information? No," Adam's lips quirked into a wry smirk. "Once I've got the information printed out, it could take a while. But you'll be helping then."

"That sounds great." And it totally didn't, but Dean understood the necessity of research even if he hated it. Since he couldn't needle Adam much more, he turned back to the big guy, who was wearing an actual _apron_ while doing some fancy work on what looked to be a tiny countertop grill. "Hey, Martha Stewart, you'd better have beer to go with those... whatever the hell it is you're making."

MacLeod snorted and looked at Adam, who, like Dean, had absolutely no sympathy for him.

"Don't look at me, MacLeod," Adam said, looking back to his computer as the printer across the room hummed to life. "This whole thing was _your_ idea."

"If I'd known what a dick he'd be about this, I might have done things differently."

"Right back at you, pretty-boy," Dean growled. "I'd be happy to get out of your hair."

"We've already established that it's not going to happen, kid," Adam interjected.

"Dean." Damn it, he was so sick of these _kid_ comments. How old was Adam anyway? 30? No older than 35. Could barely have ten years on him. Joe had an excuse being old enough to be his father. Adam was just being an ass.

" _Dean_ ," Adam said snidely. "You might as well start looking through those phone records while I pull out the emails. This many accounts could take a little longer."

"Who made you the expert on supernatural deaths now?" Dean griped, but he was already off the stool and shuffling across the room to snatch the papers off the printer. "Son of a bitch! There's like forty pages here! How many people's numbers did you hack?"

"You'd better restock the paper, MacLeod," Adam said dryly. "Just four. Nine owned numbers between them."

"Jesus!" Dean flipped through the pages, seeing row after row of the same number, many of them called within moments of each other. He frowned. That wasn't even possible, unless they called each other up to have fifty 30-second conversations. "Are these cell phones?"

"Four of them are," Adam murmured. "The other five are land lines—two office numbers, a home phone, and two dorm room lines."

"Damn." Dean tracked the numbers and noticed a strange notation by the ones with the least amount of time passed between calls. "Freaking texting maniacs."

He could imagine the vital conversations passing between the phones. _Where R U? Class. U? Skipped. Cool. Im bored. Tcher scks. Im at mcdnlds. LOL…_

Of course, these kids were in college. It was possible he was wrong. He doubted it with the brief amount of time passing between texts, but not all of them had such short time passages. There could have been important conversations happening.

"Any way to get the actual texts?" he asked as he flipped a page and started jotting down numbers.

"Not without getting the phones themselves," Adam said distractedly. "And that's assuming they haven't cleared their history."

"Of course." Dean glanced at the plate that appeared beside him, squinting uncertainly at that unfamiliar sandwich. "Seriously, what the hell is that?"

"It's a Panini," MacLeod said, sounding a little defensive. "It's got salami, ham, prosciutto, provolone... _What?_ "

That last bit of irritation was, surprisingly, not directed at Dean. Adam had an unrepentant grin on his face, though he tried to pretend it was nothing by keeping his eyes on the computer screen.

"Nothing, Rachel Ray," Adam murmured. "Thanks for the sandwich."

"Unbelievable," MacLeod dropped a beer in front of Adam, and then Dean. "Next time you people want to eat, you can stop at White Castle."

"At least beef is something I know," Dean muttered, lifting the top of his toasted sandwich to peer at the strange meats. "What the hell is provolone?"

"It's _cheese_."

"Why didn't you just say so?" Dean complained. Who the hell had time for this kind of gourmet cooking anyway? Still, it smelled good, so he pulled the plate closer. If he was good about it, he could eat and still sift through this pile of crap Adam had given him.

"Why..." MacLeod cut himself off, then snarled, "Not a word, Methos, you damned hypocrite."

Dean glanced at the big guy, wondering at the other strange word that came from his mouth. _Methos_? What the hell was that? A glance at Adam produced no real answers. Except that it was something Adam didn't like to be called. The man was scowling something fierce, and was Dean hallucinating or did MacLeod actually look contrite?

Right. Getting between the weird lover-boys was so not in his list of things to do today. Dean just shook his head at them and buried himself in phone numbers and his _Panini_.

They worked quietly for the next two hours, Dean with the phone list and Adam steadily printing out emails. MacLeod moved around them, cleaning up, restocking the paper in the printer, and generally trying to be unobtrusive. The tension flying between the two older men was palpable, but Dean ignored it. He had plenty of practice ignoring elephants in the room after all—life with John and Sam Winchester was one long recipe for angry silences.

Except Dean really didn't think about that anymore. Ever.

Finally, MacLeod muttered something about going to work out, and he left them to their research. Dean rubbed his eyes wearily as he left, half tempted to go with him. Lifting weights sounded so much better than seeking out patterns in this pile of phone numbers. They were starting to swim in front of his eyes, all looking the same.

"You almost done with those emails?" he asked some twenty minutes later. Adam sighed—the man was just as annoyed with all this work as Dean was.

"Patience, kid," Adam said wearily. "There's a lot here."

"I'm getting that from the way you've had to refill the ink on the printer twice," Dean scowled. "Can we at least take a break? Stretch out a little, _Methos_?"

He said it because it had ticked the guy off earlier. And really, it was so satisfying to see the twitching that rushed over Adam—his eyes, his lips, his arm, his _cheek_. Dean didn't care that the man was pissed, just lifted a cocky eyebrow in response to the dark look Adam shot him.

"Don't call me that," Adam hissed.

"Start using my name, and I'll start using yours," Dean retorted.

" _Fine_ ," Adam snapped. " _Dean Winchester_. Or whatever your _Dad_ called you."

"Just what the hell is your problem?" Dean slammed his pen down and turned to glare full on at the man.

"No problem," Adam said sharply. "I just want to get this over with so you'll get the hell out of town."

"So your problem is with _me_." Dean was getting just a little sick of this crap. These people were jerking him around, saying he was in danger, saying they had his back, and then they snapped and snarled at him whenever he tried to assert himself. Since when were they the experts on the supernatural anyway? And what the hell was with that snippy comment about his Dad? "Or is your problem with the fact that I'm not some wayward orphan like you? Because seriously, Adam? I'm not into all that brotherhood bonding crap."

Adam looked ready to rip his throat out. Dean twitched toward his gun, worried for a moment that he might actually have to use it.

But then Adam abruptly deflated, rubbing a trembling hand over his face before fixing his half-hearted scowl on his computer—or rather, MacLeod's computer.

"Forget it," he grumbled. "And just forget you ever heard that name, okay? I'll try to remember not to call you kid anymore."

Dean glared at him a little longer, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins not quite allowing him to just drop this.

"You part of a gang once or something?" he asked uneasily. Adam groaned.

"Just drop it, Dean," he demanded. "It's stupid, and it's none of your business."

"You can make snide comments about my dad, and you complain about me asking about that stupid nickname?" Dean snorted. "That's screwed up, man."

Adam gave a low chuckle and looked up at him with true amusement on his face.

"I suppose you would know about that," he said. Dean frowned, not sure if he should be taking offense at that. But Adam just waved at him, as if to tell him to just let it go. "A guy raising his kids into the life you've got isn't exactly a number one dad in my book, but it's really none of my business, is it?"

"You're damned right," Dean said, trying—and failing—not to bristle at the perceived insult to his father.

"I'm sorry, okay?" And despite the way it was said, Adam actually seemed sincere. Dean felt the tension slowly ease from his shoulders. "You know what? I'm sick of this too. I'll print off the last of these, and let's take a break."

They really shouldn't. The quicker they finished this research, the quicker they could find the witch and stop the killings. Dean knew that in his gut. Knew his father would tell him to man up and get back to work.

But his shoulders were sore, his eyes hurt, and his head ached from all the data sifting. Dean never had been good at sitting still for long. Unless he was driving, but then at least he was _going_ somewhere.

"What have you got in mind?"

* * *

Adam had been right about one thing: Dean was easily as good as MacLeod in a fight without weapons. MacLeod had many more years of practice, but Dean was a natural and had probably been training since he was old enough to form a fist. Top it off with the fact that MacLeod was a straight-and-narrow fair fighter, and Dean was able to best the Highlander with only minimal effort.

"Geez, Dean," MacLeod grunted, climbing off the floor where Dean had thrown him. "Where did you learn to fight? Dirty-tricks judo school?"

"When you spend your life fighting things that don't play fair, you get a little dirty yourself," Dean said with a vicious grin. He was in his element here, anyone could tell. Adam was glad he'd suggested the break, even if it brought them to MacLeod, who Dean didn't much like.

No, that wasn't quite right. Dean seemed to like MacLeod just fine. The bickering and poking fun at MacLeod's expense indicated he had since come to terms with the situation and MacLeod's presence. Somehow, despite this whole mess of stalking Dean Winchester, they were all actually starting to get along.

"This one's all yours, Adam," MacLeod declared, grabbing a towel and dropping down on the bench to cool off. To be fair, he had been working out for a solid half hour before Dean and Adam arrived. He was rightfully tired.

"I was actually thinking of upping the ante here," Adam said mildly. He grabbed a couple of bokken off the wall and tossed one to Dean. MacLeod shot him a surprised look, but he ignored it. A kid like this, leading the type of life he did, was going to need every advantage he could get. MacLeod was usually the one who went for the whole mentoring thing, teaching new students and all that, but hell if Adam hadn't kind of grown fond of Dean. He would like to see the kid live past the next year.

Dean caught the wooden sword, bringing it about in a practiced swing that surprised Adam. Then he settled into a basic, defensive stance that belied some skill. Hell, the kid had all sorts of weapons training! This was going to be fun.

"Watch your back, Dean," MacLeod advised. "He might not look it, but Adam's an expert swordsman."

"We'll see about that," Dean muttered, attention wholly focused on Adam. "Your move, old man."

Adam snorted at the nickname, but it was only fair. He had slipped and called Dean kid once more. Fortunately, Dean seemed to have since grown a sense of humor about the whole thing, and the ridiculous moniker was said with a trace of fondness. Adam had a feeling he was just going to have to get used to it. At least it was safer than him tossing around the name _Methos_.

Dean wasn't bad with a blade—even a wooden one. He was a little reckless, a little too aggressive, but his reflexes were top notch. And he cheated. A lot. Adam couldn't help it that he was grinning whenever Dean jerked an elbow over the wooden blade into his face. Just as he enjoyed the startled gust of air that burst from the younger (much younger) man when Adam shoved a foot in his gut.

Another amusing part of the exercise was that Dean swore up a storm when he was down. Adam didn't see it for what it was until he was distracted by it once. He made a classic error, slipping into (albeit silent) gloating mode, and Dean was on him like a dog on a bone.

Had the blades been real, he would have been dead. Temporarily at least.

He repaid Dean by soundly kicking his ass. The sparring session ended with Dean on his back and Adam's bokken solidly against Dean's neck.

"You lost your head," Adam said softly. "You don't get much deader than that."

"Damn!" Dean let out a breathy laugh. "You don't pull any blows."

"You don't seem the type to appreciate it," Adam replied, stepping back and accepting the towel MacLeod tossed to him. He wiped his face and draped the towel over his neck before leaning down to grab Dean's wrist and pull him to his feet. "You're pretty good, kid."

"Right back at you, old man," Dean grinned at him, energized by the session rather than worn out. "Of course, in a real fight, I would have pulled my .45 and shot your ass."

MacLeod coughed and did a poor job of hiding his smile. Adam just rolled his eyes at the both of them and headed toward the stairs.

"I need a shower," he announced. "MacLeod, be a pal and make sure Dean doesn't die while I'm in there."

"Because I'm going to slip and crack my head open on the steps without you there to hold my hand!" Dean hollered after him.

Adam smiled to himself. Things were going so much more smoothly now. Dean didn't even seem to care that he'd been left alone with MacLeod. Well, he would find out as soon as he got out of the shower how well those two got along.


	4. Friday: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has an uncomfortable interview. Naturally, trouble will find him...

Half an hour later, both Dean and Adam were clean and far more relaxed than they had been before their impromptu workout. MacLeod had given Dean a clean pair of clothes since the younger man's spares were in a bag that had been left in Adam's apartment. Adam was glad he had left some of his own clothes at MacLeod's place sometime back when he had crashed for the night. If not for that, he would probably look as ridiculous as Dean did at the moment.

"Shut up, Adam," Dean said, not for the first time.

Adam could hardly help himself. Reading emails was not nearly as entertaining as looking over to see his new young friend garbed in jeans two waist-sizes too large and a high-necked sweater that belonged on some male model or, you know, MacLeod. They were of a similar height, but MacLeod was probably twice the size of Dean. It gave the impression of a child in Dad's old cast-offs. Dean's belt was the only reason the pants did not keep falling down around his ankles.

"Sorry, sorry," Adam said, not meaning it at all. "Didn't you have anything better than that, MacLeod? I mean, aside from being too big, I'd kind of gotten used to the redneck flavor of the kid's usual apparel. Now you've got him dressed up for Vogue."

"Why the sudden critiquing of my wardrobe?" MacLeod was easily as annoyed as Dean. It was kind of a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. Adam could not help but take advantage. "Since when do you care?"

There was nothing he could say that would not get his head bitten off by either Dean or MacLeod, so Adam just grinned and shrugged and made a show of reading his half of the research.

It was not exciting at all, just as he had expected. Most of the email correspondence was school-related. That made sense, considering he was checking the addresses the school had issued to each of the victims. (Victims was an odd word to apply here, since he had known three of them, but it was easier than thinking their individual names. Less personal, really.) If any of them had email addresses outside of the ones the school used, they were out of luck. He could not track the billions of possibilities.

In other words, if something important was sent electronically, it had better have been sent using the school system.

"Damn it," Dean dropped his own pile of papers on the table and rubbed his eyes. "You found anything interesting yet?"

"A lot of class- and billing-related crap," Adam shook his head. "You?"

"Not much," Dean grumbled. He pulled a couple pages from the thick stack. "These two—Sara Harrison and Corey Mitchell—had a lot of interaction. Guy and a girl talking that much? Had to be dating."

"Huh," Adam frowned. "I never knew that."

"You usually make an effort to know who is dating who on a college campus?" Dean snorted.

"Sara was in a class of mine." But Dean was right. Student or not, he was not her friend or even an important mentor. She had no reason to share anything from her personal life with him.

"Yeah, because I told all my teachers who I was dating," Dean scoffed, reaching the same conclusion. "There's a bit of communication between Jenny Abram and the late great doctor, but not a significant amount."

"What's considered significant?" Adam wondered.

"More than two calls in a three month period," Dean said, looking irritable at the question. "There's nothing connecting the four of them together in the phone records. Abram had some contact with Mitchell, but not with Harrison. And the doctor didn't have any contact with the students."

"Any outside numbers in common?"

"A couple that two out of the four would have in common," Dean rubbed a hand over his head, coming to massage roughly at the back of his neck. "But the dating duo would have some friends in common. I found only one number in common between the two adults, which could be odd, but I found at least five other oddballs between the doctor and Abram, the doc and Mitchell—it's too insignificant to be more than a coincidence. Like you said, it's not a big campus. A few crossed numbers are going to happen."

"Same here," Adam admitted. "You want a break from numbers? You could look at Johnston's emails. I'm not really in the mood to sort through that bottom-dweller's social interactions."

"Gee, Adam," Dean grinned and accepted the stack of papers. "Tell us how you really feel."

Adam pulled a sour face and went back to sorting through Corey Mitchell's email correspondence. Dean chuckled and settled in for some dull reading, letting them fall into another lengthy silence. MacLeod was not even there to break the monotony anymore, having retreated to do some grading after Adam ridiculed his clothing.

There was nothing notable in any of the emails, Adam had discovered early on. Except, perhaps, the sign of the complete decay of the English language. He had seen enough emails written in chatspeak to make his head spin. It was worse than the lazy drawl the people in southern US had adopted. At least no one typed out y'all. If he had seen that, he might tear the paper into shreds.

"Son of a _bitch_." Dean's quiet hiss twenty minutes in had Adam looking up in alarm. The man vacillated between looks of fury and revulsion as his eyes flicked between several pages. "You weren't kidding when you called this asshole a bottom-dweller, were you?"

"Why?" Adam set his useless papers aside to reach for what had Dean so upset. Looking ill, Dean handed over the page to let him read. Adam considered the young man for a moment, then looked at the printout. It was a full conversation—messages forwarded back and forth several times. He had to start from the bottom to follow it.

_Re: Last Tuesday’s assignment_

_Professor Johnston,_

_I'm confused about the grade I received on my last assignment. I received a D, but there's no explanation for the deductions. Was this a mistake?_

_Marina Cortes_

_RE: Re: Last Tuesday’s assignment_

_Marina,_

_The paper in question had issues. Office hours are 4-5 Wed. To discuss this without interruption, come after 5._

_RE: RE: Re: Last Tuesday’s assignment_

_Professor Johnston,_

_I have an evening class Wed. Office hours I can do. Is that okay?_

_RE: RE: RE: Re: Last Tuesday’s assignment_

_Marina,_

_Thursday after 6 would be better._

_RE: RE: RE: RE: Re: Last Tuesday’s assignment_

_Professor Johnston,_

_I'll be there Thursday at 6._

This was not that unusual. Pushing for a meeting outside of office hours could indicate Johnston had been booked beyond the time this girl would need to have that discussion. When Adam cast Dean a questioning look, all he received was a stony glare and another sheet of paper. This one had another conversation he had to read in reverse.

_Re: Last week’s exam_

_Professor Johnston,_

_Last week's exam must have been graded incorrectly. When we went over the test in class, my answers matched with what you said, and yet I received a D. You left before I could clarify with you. Perhaps you mixed up my exam with someone else's? Will you please fix this?_

_Marina Cortes_

_RE: Re: Last week’s exam_

_Marina,_

_My apologies for the mistake. Feel free to come to my office Thursday after 6, and I will see what we can do to fix the error._

_RE: RE: Re: Last week’s exam_

_Professor Johnston,_

_This seems unnecessary. Maybe we could just meet before class next week._

_RE: RE: RE: Re: Last week’s exam_

_Marina,_

_For the sake of your grade, we should meet before I send in my class reports. If Thursday does not work for you, I can find time for you Friday._

_RE: RE: RE: RE: Re: Last week’s exam_

_Professor Johnston,_

_Thursday will be fine. But I can only stay a few minutes._

_RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Re: Last week’s exam_

_Marina,_

_I'm sure we will find a way to make it work._

There was something not quite jiving with the conversation, but Adam wasn't sure what to make of it. He looked up, frowning and waiting for Dean to either explain what he was looking at or give him more to work with. When nothing else was forthcoming, he cleared his throat.

"I'm not really following," he admitted.

"In my line of work, coincidences don't happen much," Dean said tightly. "This isn't exactly supernatural, but how often is it that a teacher makes an error that big with the same student twice?"

Adam frowned. He did not like where this was leading.

"And that bullshit about sending in the grades? I'm not a college boy, but even I know grading isn't sent through so quickly that it can't wait until the next week unless the semester is up," Dean growled. "This shit about only staying a few minutes? That asshole totally banged his student."

"My god," Adam looked back at the emails. He was amazed at Johnston's stupidity in leaving the correspondence just sitting there in his In Box. He was also astounded that Dean had made such an impressive leap of intuition. No doubt Johnston was secure that no one would randomly start searching his email (well, secure in that knowledge before he died, anyway). Plus, assuming anyone did, there were few people who would have just made the connection Dean had. Even Adam had not seen it until the signs had been pointed out to him. "That son of a bitch."

"How many girls do you suppose he lured into his office and screwed over bad grades?" Dean asked angrily. "If that shithead wasn't already dead, I'd track his skeezy ass down right now and beat him into the pavement."

Adam thought Johnston was lucky he _was_ already dead. When MacLeod caught wind of this—and he would, there was no doubt—he would be seeing red. There was no force on Earth strong enough to hold back an angry Highlander.

"I want to talk to this girl," Dean said, and like a stubborn Highlander, Adam knew there was no arguing with that tone. "Now. Track her down."

"If she's on campus, she should be easy enough to locate," Adam powered up the laptop again and went to work. It was simple enough to pull up a student directory. Housing arrangements were not open to the general public for obvious reasons, but he was not about to let that stop him. "Here we are. She's in the dorms... Same one as Sara."

Shit. Seriously?

"Abram was a counselor, right?" Dean's question had Adam immediately checking more confidential records. "Can you see if she was talking to this girl?"

It took a few minutes for this one. Breaking into the scheduling system of a specific office was an entirely different matter from checking housing situations. Still, he was able to find it in under fifteen minutes, which wasn't bad. Especially with an angry Dean Winchester looking over his shoulder every thirty seconds.

"There it is," Adam said softly. "She was seeing Marina once a week."

"I don't suppose you can pull up the case files?" Dean wondered, his wry tone expectant of the answer Adam had to give.

"Most of that stuff isn't in computer files," he told the kid.

"We'll break into her office later if we have to," Dean said, far too easily for Adam's comfort.

"She was my friend, kid," he cautioned.

"Then you should be trying even harder to find out who killed her," Dean retorted. "Get your shit together, old man. I'm going with or without you."

It was hard not to bristle. The casual commentary irritated him, Dean's coarse manner rubbing him wrong. Unfortunately, the kid was also _correct_. Even so, he felt completely justified in needling the younger man.

"You really want to show up dressed like that?" he asked.

Dean looked down at his over-sized clothes and swore.

* * *

MacLeod was huge. This Dean took to be unequivocal fact. The man was not really any taller than him, but he was built like a damn Mack truck. His shoulders were twice as wide as Dean's. Even though he looked slim compared to his body-builder chest and shoulders, he was thicker around the waist than Dean by about three inches. Which, in pant sizes, translated to a desperate need for a belt or public humiliation.

If it had not been getting late, Dean would have insisted upon stopping at Adam's apartment for his own clothing. As it was, their research had taken them into the late afternoon, and it was getting to be past office hours. However, this girl had an obvious connection to three out of the four victims, and that meant Dean needed to track her down yesterday. Normal office hours were rapidly closing, along with them any viable reasons to interview the girl.

In the end, Dean pulled on the jeans he had started wearing that day, which solved the pants crisis, but his shirt was definitely smelling like he had worked out hard. He let MacLeod put him in a knit turtleneck that was probably tight on the big guy but fit loosely on Dean.

"Ah, MacLeod," Adam remarked when Dean came striding out two minutes later. "Call GQ. I think Armani lost his model."

"Shut up," Dean growled. His beat-up, oversized leather jacket helped some, but Adam still snickered at him. "How well known are you around campus? Because if this girl recognizes you, my credibility will sink straight through the floor."

"MacLeod's on it," Adam sighed. "You won't like it, though."

Dean looked at the man, but Adam had nothing else to add. The Impala rumbled to life, and they shot toward the school as quickly as Dean dared drive.

Adam was right. Dean did not like it. He was grabbing for Adam's coat lapel the instant the car stopped. He even contemplated strangling the bastard when their aid strode across the sidewalk toward the parked Impala.

"No! No way!" Dean snarled. "That bitch makes my skin crawl!"

"I don't like this either," Adam hissed right back. "I'm benched for any time when she's around, so you'd damn well better watch your back."

"You're leaving me _alone_ with her?" Dean demanded, and that was true horror he felt. The bitch had manipulated him something fierce, though, and—goddamn it!—he was justified.

"Bad blood, kid," Adam muttered. He slouched low in his seat but obligingly rolled down his window when the woman reached the car and tapped lightly against the glass. Her gaze was cold and unfriendly when she looked at Dean's companion.

"Methos." There was that nickname again. Adam kept his eyes on the dash, expression flat and cold, and _this_ was the man who would be good in a dirty fight. Dean considered him for a moment, but the bitch was more threatening to him, so he had to look at her all too soon.

"Cassandra," Adam said wryly. "Thanks for coming."

"Keep your thanks," the woman said icily. "I'm doing it for Duncan and the child. You're just lucky I hold Duncan's friendship in high regard."

Adam snorted. There was definitely something between these two, but Dean did not want to get into it now. Even if it was any of his business, he doubted either of them would appreciate his questions.

"You're the one who insists he lives to see tomorrow, so he's your responsibility as long as you're with him," Adam said flatly. "MacLeod got you two IDs that will get you in the building. After that, you're on your own."

"Are there metal detectors?" Dean asked.

"Guns are banned on campus," Adam said dryly. Dean shot him a dark look.

"I didn't ask that," he retorted. "I _asked_ if there are metal detectors in the building."

"No," Cassandra was the one to answer, and yeah. Like Dean was going to take _her_ at her word. He ignored her and looked sharply at Adam.

" _No_ , there aren't any metal detectors," Adam said impatiently. "Just go play your game and don't let any witches kill you."

Dean sneered at him.

"You say that and then send me with _her_ ," he growled. "You're a real comedian."

"I wasn't trying to be funny.”

"You two are as far from funny as two men can get," Cassandra interjected. "Dean, I promise I won't bite you. Methos, I will honor my word to Duncan not to kill you either."

"Love and harmony all around," Adam muttered.

"You people are crazy," Dean complained. He shoved his door open and climbed out. He was angry enough that, had he been in any other car, he would have slammed the door shut. Since it was his baby, he pushed hard enough to make the door latch. He shifted his favorite gun into the back waistband of his jeans, griping. "This is why witches suck. At least ghosts make _sense_ , have _rules_. _People_. People are friggin' _insane_."

Cassandra, thank god, kept her mouth shut. She followed him to the dorm, quiet up until the moment he got to the door and realized it was locked. He was so not picking the lock of a very public building in broad daylight.

"The ID card Duncan gave you should unlock the door," Cassandra offered gently.

Dean shot her an impatient glance before pulling out his free pass and waving it before the sensor. The door beeped, red light turning green, and he yanked it open. They had to repeat this process further down a hall, and they were officially _in_.

The dormitory was eight stories tall and thus had an elevator. Marina Cortes lived in the west wing on the sixth floor, a climb that was an easy jog for Dean. He was tempted to take the stairs, just for spite, but he was not inherently cruel. Never for cruelty's sake anyway. Cassandra was a scary woman, but he felt no need to push her. Besides, he didn't want to provoke someone who could silence him with a word.

"She'd better be here," Dean muttered, restless in the elevator. It was hard to stand in close quarters with Cassandra when his every instinct screamed she was dangerous and to put her down. Unfortunately, she also had friends—big friends with bone-crushing grips—and they might notice if they both entered an elevator and only he walked out. Life was beyond not fair.

"She's here," Cassandra assured him.

"If you know because of some freaky witchcraft shit—"

" _Wicca_ is not evil in and of itself," Cassandra said coolly. "It is no different than the gun in your pocket."

It wasn't in his _pocket_ , thankyouverymuch, but he was grateful she didn't say pants. That would have been all sorts of awkward.

“I called ahead," Cassandra continued. "Telephones are much quicker and more reliable than incantations."

"Oh." Amazing how this woman could make him feel like an idiotic child with a few words. He really got enough of that from Bobby and Dad, and those were people he respected. Dean was not pleased to be on the receiving end of Cassandra's barbed tongue. "What did you tell her?"

"What Duncan told me to tell her—that we work with the school and would like to speak with her regarding Jennifer Abram's death."

It was not odd for the school to run its own inquiry into the deaths of its professors. Nor was it uncommon for them to follow up with at-risk students who had been seeing counselors who suddenly and violently died. In this situation, it just happened to be only Marina who they would be visiting, not that she knew that.

"I'm having a hard time coming up with something to call you other than freaky bitch," Dean admitted. And why wasn't this elevator ride over already? This had to be the slowest lift ever made. "What's the name on your ID?"

Amazingly, Cassandra was not offended by his blunt honesty. She just cocked a finely groomed eyebrow at him and held out her identification card. It listed her as an employee of the school with the psychiatric health department, the same as Dean's, and declared her Cassandra Johnson.

"Oh, very original," Dean grunted. Just to be safe, he checked his own ID. Dean Smith. "Smith? Seriously? I'm going to kick his ass."

"Duncan informed me that you already had," Cassandra's blithe comment had him grinning viciously.

"I barely touched him," he declared. "For this, a true beating is in order." The elevator dinged to the sixth floor stop. " _Finally_."

He was taking the stairs for the trip back down. If Cassandra wanted to ride that slow-ass elevator again, she could. It wasn't like he had to give her a ride home or anything.

The dorm was divided into wings—north, east, south and west. While they were not all girls' rooms, each wing was segregated by gender. The west wing, for example, was a girl's wing.

They found the room easily enough. Dean frowned when he saw the door hanging wide open, but nothing seemed to be amiss. Several other doors down the hall were equally ajar. It seemed to be the norm in this place.

Weird people. Dean didn't trust anybody well enough to leave his door unlocked, let alone open. Still, he figured they wouldn't mind if he looked in, since that open door was practically an invitation for any creepy bastard to snoop.

Two girls were there, one sitting on a bed, the other on the floor. Both seemed to be working on something school-related. The one on the bed was a brunette, pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. She kept her hair back in a ponytail and didn't wear much makeup. Not really Dean's type. She looked like the kind of girl who would want a _relationship_.

The other girl had black hair and was kind of mousy looking. That hair was definitely dyed, which normally Dean didn't mind, but he was not one for Goths. If that one was Marina, then he was going to jump straight to the conclusion that she was a witch wannabe who had screwed with too much magic.

Tap-tapping at the open door, he brought forth a friendly smile.

"Marina Cortes?" he asked lightly. The mousy one looked to the other girl, who bit her lip and nodded. Huh. He had not expected that. Then again, witches did not always have a particular look. Anyone angry enough could dabble in dark magic to unpleasant results. "We called ahead. We'd like to speak with you about Ms. Abram."

"A woman called," Marina murmured.

It was through sheer force of will that Dean kept smiling. He nodded at Cassandra, who entered the room ahead of him. Well, pushed him aside really. Bitch.

"Hello," Cassandra held out her hand to Marina, who shook it after a moment of hesitation. "I'm Cassandra. This is Dean Smith. He works through the state and is assisting us until we hire a replacement."

Jesus. Could the woman be colder? Dean had not known Jenny Abram, and he wanted to punch Cassandra for her casual dismissal of the dead woman. From the looks of things, so did Marina.

"I'm not interested in seeing a space-filler," the girl said, shifting immediately into anger. This was not good. Dean caught Cassandra by the elbow and gently shifted her to the side, giving himself space to move into the room.

"That's not why we're here, Miss Cortes," Dean said smoothly. "We just have a few questions—if you'd prefer we do this in private..."

Marina looked at the other girl, then back at Dean.

"I'd rather Morgan stayed, if you don't mind," she said, shooting a sharp look between him and Cassandra. Great. He was Dean-freaking- _Smith_ , and this girl already did not trust him or the bitch with him. Now, if Sam had been along—

"As long as you're comfortable, I don't have a problem with that," Dean said, overriding his own traitorous thoughts with the job. "Miss Cortes, you had been seeing Ms. Abram for a while now."

"A few months, I guess," Marina shrugged.

"Now, you're aware of counselor-patient confidentiality," Dean said, easing her into it. She nodded, so he continued, "Are you also aware that a counselor is morally obligated to report when he or she feels the patient is at risk?"

Speaking of risks, this one had been calculated. He had discussed this with Adam on the way to the school. The man had been remarkably insightful, not to mention dead useful. Dean never would have known this crap without some major study ahead of time. Time they simply did not have.

Marina's face clouded over. Dean could not quite keep the anger out of his voice when he spoke again.

"Care to tell us why you didn't press charges against Johnston?" he asked.

Marina's eyes flicked to her friend. Morgan offered a supportive hand, which Marina clung to tightly. Obviously Morgan knew what had happened, which was probably why she had not been immediately kicked out of the room when Dean and Cassandra arrived.

"No one would have believed me," Marina said softly.

"Your counselor did," Dean said frankly. "I do. And so does..." He glanced at Cassandra, taking in her calm stare and despised her even more. Forcing himself not to choke on it, he added, "Ms. Johnson. Yet you only told a counselor in confidence. Although, I'm betting Ms. Abram was against you keeping this a secret."

Marina's dark eyes flashed at him.

"What would you know?" she snapped. "You're a _man_. You stand there and say you don't understand, and you won't."

It stung in ways it really shouldn't. Dean closed his eyes, breath hissing through his teeth. He hated getting personal with people. Seriously hated it. But this girl was the only lead he had right now.

_Damn it_.

"You," Dean pointed at Marina's friend. "Morgan, right?"

The mousy girl frowned.

"Yeah..."

"Out," he said curtly. He glared at Cassandra. "You too. I want to talk to this kid alone."

"Excuse me!" Marina objected.

"Dean," Cassandra said in warning, completely ignoring the college girl.

"You _especially_ ," Dean snapped. "Hover by the door for all I care. Just give us a moment to talk."

Morgan did not protest at all. She just tugged her hand free and trotted out of the room, grabbing her bag as she went.

"I've got to go to the library anyway," the friend said.

Marina looked incredulous, mouth agape as the other girl disappeared. Cassandra shot Dean a dark look, which he purposefully ignored, and pulled the door shut behind her as she left. Then, naturally, Marina regained her voice and snarled at Dean for all she was worth.

"You don't look any older than me," Marina snapped. "Don't you dare call me kid."

"Fine," Dean said testily. "I won't call you a kid, but then you don't get to go around saying that just because I'm a _guy_ that I can't possibly know what you're going through."

"Yeah?" the girl sneered at him. "What would _you_ know about it anyway? You ever had one of your professors force you into sex over a stupid paper? Even if some lady did, it's not like there's any risk in it for you. You'd probably just get off on knowing you made your professor all hot and bothered."

Dean sneered right back at her.

"You think you get the rights to this kind of drama because you've got tits?" he demanded. "Maybe I've never been coerced into some teacher's office. But guess what? When I was growing up? I saw a lot of bad things. Met a lot of bad people. Lived in a lot of places that weren't so hot."

Yeah. He had her attention. She was still pissed, probably more from being cornered than her indignation over his gender now. Dean didn't like the stuff coming out of his mouth, but he was going to share this if it would get this girl talking.

"My dad taught me to hustle pool when I was fourteen," he said icily. "Kind of a crappy father thing to do, maybe, but we didn't have a lot of money, and I was good at it. So by the time I was sixteen, he left me alone in these seedy bars, doing my thing, and—hey, guess what?—I had strange drunk guys pawing at me nightly. Calling me pretty boy and _bitch_. I once had some guy slip me a roofie. I was lucky my dad was there to beat the shit out of him before we made it clear of the parking lot."

Marina's eyes were wide now, horrified as Dean spewed toxic waste. _Goddamn_ it, his hands were shaking. Crossing his arms, he tucked those treasonous hands under his arms and squeezed down to stop the trembling. He took a bracing breath and looked directly at the girl.

"Maybe I haven't been raped," he said intensely. "But that doesn't mean I can't know what it feels like to have all of the power taken from me. To know the fear and the humiliation that comes with it. So yeah, _Miss Cortes_. I get it. What I _don't_ get is why you let him get away with it."

Oh crap. The girl was crying. Sighing heavily, Dean sat down next to her. He had never been good with this comfort thing. That was always Sam's department. Anyway, the girl had been raped. He could not imagine she would respond well to a guy twice her size trying to touch her.

It came as a surprise then when Marina leaned into his shoulder and sobbed. Uncomfortable, Dean sat rigid, letting her use him as a literal shoulder to cry on. His hands fisted on his legs, useless and still freaking shaking. He was getting a drink after this.

"It doesn't matter now anyway," Marina said after a while. She rubbed her eyes, sniffling but calmer. "He died. Killed himself. Maybe someone else threatened to take him to court or something."

"So they say," Dean said darkly. This was not sounding good. If this girl wasn't the one who had killed the professor, then he was going to be back to square one. And all that freaky shit shared for nothing.

"I wish Jenny was still alive," Marina whispered. "She wanted me to tell the authorities—said I should have gone to the hospital straight away after it happened. But I didn't know how to prove it was involuntary. It's not like he really hurt me."

"Sounds like he hurt you plenty," Dean murmured. Marina lifted her head and looked at him.

"Does it ever stop?" she asked breathlessly. "Will they stop?"

Dean looked at her, surprised at the question.

"Sweetheart, it's a big world with a lot of people," he said. "Most of them are okay. But there's always going to be an asshole. You just gotta show them you're not a pushover."

"Easy for you to say," Marina wiped at her eyes. "You look like you could beat up anyone who tried to go at you."

"There's always bigger guys," Dean shrugged. In his line of work, the bad guys were not always bigger, just more powerful. He'd been flung into a wall by a pint-sized ghost plenty of times. "Carry protection. Pepper spray or something."

Incredibly, Marina gave a soft laugh.

"I would have liked to have seen the professor's face if I shot him in the face with mace," she murmured.

"I can tell you for a _fact_ that it burns like a bitch," Dean said. He caught her eye and the beginnings of the question and quickly cut her off. "Oh no. I've shared plenty of my shitty childhood for one night. You can think whatever you want now."

"Did your dad keep making you hustle after that time?"

Dean sighed. She would just keep pressing. Rubbing a hand over his face wearily, he tossed her a sick smile.

"Yeah," he said. "But he didn't let me start going alone again until I was eighteen."

"It must have been a relief to get away from all of that," Marina decided.

The conversation had gone far enough. Now he was getting into hazy territory. With all the truth that had come out, he was not keen on mixing in a host of lies.

"Go take a self-defense course," he said abruptly. He dug a card out of his pocket—it was very official looking but had virtually no information on it. Grabbing a pen, he scrawled his name and number on it while still talking. "Get some pepper spray to put in your purse. These aren't the dark ages anymore. If you're attacked again, go to the hospital like Ms. Abram said. Get the right people to believe you, and you'll put the bastard in jail. And if you have anything else you feel you want to talk about, call me. Got it?"

"Thanks," she smiled. "You know, you're not like any other counselor I've met. Usually they don't yell at me."

"I'm still kind of new to this stuff," Dean shrugged awkwardly. "Plus you pissed me off. Maybe you're right though. I'm not really cut out for this job."

"Don't say that," Marina kissed his cheek and got up to escort him to the door. "You're good at it."

Dean shot her a startled look, then went into the hall where Cassandra was waiting.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Cortes."

She offered a watery smile and closed the door.

* * *

They almost made it out without incident. Dean had expected Cassandra to gripe at him for locking her out of the room. She did give him a dark look, but she didn't say anything immediately. When he nodded for the exit, she trailed along quietly.

Until someone bumped him as he passed into the main gathering room. The girl came from the side, yipping out a curse when it happened, and they heard the sharp sound of shattering glass.

"Oh _damn!_ "

"Crap," Dean grumbled. Why did all this stupid shit happen to him? Cassandra, the useless woman, just stood back while he crouched to help the idiot who ran into him. He glanced up into startled brown eyes framed by shiny black hair. "Morgan?"

"Oh," the girl's eyes drooped in disapproval. "You."

"I thought you were going to the library," Dean muttered, picking up the larger shards of glass and piling them in his hand.

"I forgot my physics book," Morgan said dryly. "I didn't want to interrupt, so I grabbed a drink of water to stall."

"Right," Dean glanced around for a trash. "You'll need a vacuum or something. No way else are you getting the rest of that glass up."

"Here," Morgan reached for his hand as he stood, "I'll just take it."

In an awkward movement, she stumbled and jostled against him, sending half of the glass tinkling back to the floor and another piece jabbing into his palm. Dean hissed and winced, and that bratty girl just looked startled, not the least bit apologetic.

"Sorry," she said anyway. "Just, I'll take it. You don't have to—"

"Just show me to the damned trashcan," he demanded.

Stung by his hostility, Morgan's jaw tightened, and she pointed. Dean made short work of the glass still in his hands. She could pick up whatever he dropped for all he cared. He reinforced that thought when he had to pluck a large shard out of his skin, blood pooling to the surface.

This case just hated him. At least the trashcan was in a kitchen type common area, and there were napkins. He grabbed one, wiped away the worst of the blood, and tossed it. He took a second one to hold against future bleeding and stormed toward the exit. Which wasn't really an exit but a stairwell, and he didn't care so long as it got him away from these people and bad memories and stupid roommates.

Cassandra followed him despite the fact that he was not using the elevator. Just one more irritant.

"What was that all about back there?" the woman asked, her husky voice echoing in the well. It was eerie and not in a good way. "I'm trying to protect you, and you kick me out of the room?"

"I needed her to talk to me, but you had her on the defensive," Dean retorted. "So I kicked you out, okay? Besides. It wasn't her anyway. She's not happy that her counselor is dead. She just lost an ally."

"She could be lying," Cassandra said, sounding less like she believed it and more like she was playing devil's advocate.

"I lie for a living," Dean said. "I can spot another liar. She wasn't even hiding anything."

He hit the bottom landing and blew out of the building as quickly as he could without running.

"Look, I'm just trying to help," Cassandra said, dogging his heels all the way to the parking lot. "Why are you so upset?"

"Because now I'm back to square one!" Dean snapped, tossing an impatient scowl over his shoulder. "I just had to deal with a rape victim crying her eyes out on me, and I'm stressed, alright? Go shove it and let me deal with my case."

Adam was still waiting in the car, and he perked up, alert as they approached. He looked suspicious when Dean swung around to the driver's side, but he didn't say anything. Dean paused before climbing into the car, glowering darkly at the older woman who had followed him right to the Impala.

"I am _not_ giving you a ride home, and if you don't get the hell out of my way, I will run you down," he told her in no uncertain terms. Cassandra merely lifted her eyebrows and stepped back into the protection of the other parked cars.

"Be careful, Dean," she said.

"Whatever," he growled. He slammed his door on her and started the car, pulling out faster than was safe.

"Not our girl?" Adam predicted.

"Shut up."

Adam, smart man that he was, did so.

* * *

Dean was upset. Any fool with eyes could see that. Clenched jaw, tight skin around the eyes, mouth pinched—and that was just his face. His knuckles were white where he clamped hard around the steering wheel, and his shoulders were practically at his ears. He was going to blow any minute.

Had this been MacLeod or Joe, Adam would have said something, would have tried to ease them into a slightly happier mood with his acerbic wit. But this was not one of his friends. This was a kid who he barely knew, one who barely trusted him, and would certainly not appreciate any attempts at levity.

So Adam kept quiet. They made it all the way back to MacLeod's place, Dean driving too fast the whole time. They were lucky the cops didn't catch them.

"I want to take a look at the emails again," Dean growled.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Shut up."

Aka, Dean didn't want to talk about it. Things had obviously not gone well, whatever that all entailed. It could have come right down to the fact that Dean was so pissed that a girl had been raped by her professor and would not see proper justice done. If it hadn't been her to kill Johnston, then he was just a casualty that meant only that she had to deal with a new professor for her class. Another one she would never trust again thanks to Johnston.

Their evening devolved into angry silence and frustrated shuffling of papers. Dean was the source of any discomfort, of course. Adam and MacLeod just exchanged uneasy looks and let the boy do what he would.

Since Dean was not really accepting help, Adam joined MacLeod in the kitchen and settled in to make dinner. He gave the boy a beer to nurse over his research and raided MacLeod's kitchen for spices the man never used. Never let it be said that Adam could not cook. (Just because it was neither modern nor traditional…)

Dinner was another awkward affair, silent and tense. Dean poured over the phone listings and printed emails. He even went to the Internet, pulling up website on the occult and scowling when nothing produced any new information.

Long after dinner was over, after the kitchen was cleaned, Adam and MacLeod hovered around doing nothing useful. MacLeod graded papers, and Adam reread them, searching for more mistakes and just generally mocking them. Nothing to help the case, of course, but this wasn't their game. Dean had a plan, and he was not in the mood for sharing it with them. All they could do was make sure he didn't go out and get himself killed in the near future.

A little after midnight, Adam looked up and smirked. He nudged MacLeod with his elbow and pointed, and MacLeod snorted softly. Dean had fallen asleep over his research. At the table, surrounded by a mess of papers and a laptop computer, he had finally keeled over into some much-needed sleep. Adam was tempted to get a blanket for him, but he was sure if he tried to touch the kid, he would just wake him.

"You want to run to your place and get his stuff?" MacLeod asked, his voice barely a murmur.

"If I take his car, he might kill me," Adam replied. MacLeod flipped him a set of keys. "Thanks."

He ducked out of the apartment for a break that he needed as much as Dean needed sleep.

* * *

Adam was intending to stop at his place just to get Dean's stuff and some clothes for himself. However, when he stopped, the bed looked too inviting to pass up. MacLeod could handle Dean for a couple of hours. As long as Dean did not try to make a run for it. Which, then, meant MacLeod was well and truly screwed. Because there was no way that man would be able to out-wile the kid. Dean was just too clever for the straight-and-narrow Highlander.

Naturally, because he wanted a break, he did not get one. No sooner had he set his and Dean's bags by the door, then his cell phone was ringing.

"Oh, come on," he complained as an answer. "Can't you last an _hour_ without my help?"

_"Something is wrong, Methos,"_ MacLeod said. The poor bastard didn't just sound harassed. No, he sounded flat out panicked. Adam was immediately alert.

"What is it? Is Dean still with you?"

His question was answered by Dean rather than MacLeod. It came in the form of distant cursing and a sharp cry that could only be caused by intense pain.

"What's going on?" Adam demanded.

_"I don't know!"_ MacLeod snapped. "He woke up screaming, okay? Get your ass back here!" The phone must have dropped then, because Adam could still hear MacLeod, but the man was not talking to him. _"Dean! Hey, kid! Come on, calm down! What's wrong?"_

Cursing, Adam shoved his cell into his pocket, grabbed the bags, and bolted for the car he borrowed from MacLeod.

He reached MacLeod's loft in seven minutes, which was pretty good considering he had to first reach the car, travel a little over five miles, and then run up to the apartment. The cops had to be on vacation or just completely oblivious because Adam had done sixty in a thirty-five zone, and not a single flashing light had lit up his rear view mirror.

Still, seven minutes was an eternity. Dean had not made a lot of noise in the background, but that was probably because he was used to tolerating pain. He just seemed the type. So the fact that he _had_ been yelling was cause for a whole lot of concern.

Adam did not bother knocking, and it was a good thing the door was still unlocked, or he might have just broken it down in his haste to get inside. Not that MacLeod or Dean would have noticed. He found them by the table where Dean had dozed off, next to the overturned chair. Barely taking a moment to take stock in what was happening, Adam slid to the floor next to them.

MacLeod was hovering over Dean, more upset than Adam had seen him in a long time. It was no wonder. Even a complete stranger would freak out over the way _Dean_ was freaking out. The young man had collapsed and curled into an impossibly little ball, like he was trying to protect himself from an outside attack. One hand was visible, ripping into his short hair with a vengeance. His entire body shook, the occasional violent twitch lending the appearance of a seizure.

"He's not bleeding," MacLeod said, agitated and undecided on what to do with himself. "I called Cassandra."

"That's just great," Adam growled. He reached for Dean's shoulder. MacLeod yelped out something as he touched the young man, but it was buried beneath the sudden yowl Adam had not thought Dean capable of making. He yanked his hand back. "Holy hell!"

"Son of a _bitch!_ " Dean whimpered. "Adam?"

"What's happening, kid?" Adam very carefully did not touch Dean as he leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse of an eye, a mouth— _something_. "Where does it hurt?"

"Frigging _everywhere_ ," Dean moaned. He grunted and shuddered. "I don't know what's wrong. Goddamn _bitch!_ "

"They need one of those hex bags, don't they?" Adam asked harshly. "Dean! Shouldn't there be a hex bag?"

Dean groaned again, his entire body twitching.

"Think 'm gonna be sick," he whined. "Ch-check... check pockets."

Pockets. He could do that. Adam lunged toward where Dean's leather jacket was hung and rifled through the pockets. He came up with three lighters, a large bag of peanut M&Ms, an alcohol flask, and a few receipts. Adam made a mental note to ask the kid what he was doing with _three_ lighters and an alcohol flask. Assuming this fit didn't kill him. Hell, even if it did kill him.

The only other pockets in question were the ones in Dean's pants, and he was not sure how much he would be appreciated for rifling through those. A low murmur of pain was enough to convince him that Dean's comfort was secondary to his life.

"Don't get the wrong idea here, kid," Adam said in warning. Dean choked on another whimper and jerked when Adam groped into his pockets as carefully as he dared. The kid was probably less upset by the breach in personal boundaries than he was by whatever pain the contact was causing him. And still, Adam came up with nothing. "Kid, I got nothing."

"Duncan?" Cassandra's voice rang unwelcome through the loft. Adam grimaced but did not budge from his spot beside his charge. It figured that he would leave for an hour and something like this would happen. "Dean?"

"In here!" MacLeod shouted. "Cassandra, please say you can fix this."

"Wai-wait! Keep that bitch away from me!" Dean's voice was rising in his distress, at least half an octave above its normal rough timbre.

"Now is not the time to be prejudiced," Cassandra rebuked, easing down into the fray. "If I can tolerate Methos, you can certainly put up with me."

She ignored his protesting mewls and obvious pain. Rather than flinch when her touch made him whine, she just kept prodding and squeezing, provoking more unpleasant sounds from the kid. She dragged her hands over Dean's side, pressing here, squeezing there, and if the poor kid had not been in so much pain, he probably would have had something to say about it. As it was, he just gave a sharp sob of agony and tried to jerk away.

Adam grimaced in sympathy but held his tongue. Something very strange was happening, charging the very air with its wrongness, but he could not say what it was. His eyes were telling him something was not right, something beyond the pain their young friend was suffering. But his ears kept overriding the other senses. His mind cringed from this scene where there was no blood, no missing limbs, and yet a man was almost crying in pain.

"Here we are," Cassandra murmured. She tugged Dean's hand from his head, ignoring the way he twisted down to hide. All she cared about was the hand in hers, wrapped in a bandage. "It's blood magic. The hand—it hurts?"

As if in answer to the question, Dean's hand spasmed, his arm pulling hard against her deceptively light-looking grip. Cassandra did not let go, just ran her fingers along the bandage. The young man really did start crying at that point, tears wetting his face despite his best attempts at keeping his eyes clamped shut against them.

"I feel it burning through here," she said. "Even if I find the witch, the spell has been cast. We'll have to find out what was done in order to reverse it."

"Reverse what?" MacLeod demanded. "What's happening? Is it killing him?"

"No," Cassandra smiled, as if that was reassuring. Neither Adam nor MacLeod smiled back. If anything, Adam just thought this proved how crazy she was. Frigid as ice. "It's a transformation spell. He's changing."

"Wh—changing into what?" MacLeod blurted in horror. "Cassandra! _Changing into what?_ "

"I don't know," Cassandra released Dean's hand, and the arm was immediately snatched back to Dean's body. He curled around it with a muffled groan. He grunted again when Cassandra's hand came to rest on his head, strong fingers smoothing over sweaty hair. "But it's not just skin deep. It's changing his entire structure—bones, skin, organs. Everything. It's why he's in so much pain."

"What can we do?" MacLeod asked. "Should we take him to a hospital?"

"Nothing a doctor can do," Cassandra shook her head. "And do you really want to be the one to explain if Dean suddenly changes into, say, a dog?"

"Jesus," Adam breathed. Horror breaking his silence though he swore he would avoid speaking to Cassandra at all costs. "Are you serious?"

She shot him a disapproving look.

"It's just an example," she said. "But yes. I'm serious. Look at his hair. It's gotten noticeably longer. His hands have started shrinking. The clothing is loose on him—"

"The clothes were already loose," MacLeod felt the need to point out. Both Cassandra and Adam looked at him. He twitched and shrugged a shoulder. "I'm just saying."

"My point is, he's changing, and there's nothing to be done but to ride it out," Cassandra concluded. "It should only last a few hours. Until then, I recommend someone stays with him, just to be sure he doesn't cause any harm to himself. Maybe move him to someplace more comfortable than the floor."

"We could sedate him," Adam offered. Despite the dirty looks he received, he had been serious. "If it would knock him out through the worst of it..."

"The spell will dissolve any foreign substance in his body," Cassandra said, as though she were explaining it to a stupid child who should know better. "Notice that he hasn't thrown up. He's been gagging plenty, but there's nothing there. It's gone. As will anything else be that you try to put in him."

"We'll put him on my bed," MacLeod said. The interruption was a welcome one. "Cassandra, I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to ask you to go. Dean's uncomfortable with you, and he's already suffering enough. If there's nothing else you can do..."

"I understand," Cassandra gave the young man's hair a final stroke, apparently oblivious to the way he shuddered under her hand, and left.

This left Adam and MacLeod in the uneasy position of deciding how to move a young man who could barely tolerate being touched. Unfortunately, Cassandra was right. As bad as this was, it would probably be better on a surface that did not bruise so easily as the hardwood floor of MacLeod's dining room.

"Dean," MacLeod called. "Come on, kiddo. Talk to me."

Dean groaned.

"Did you get all of what Cassandra said?"

Adam shook his head. This was getting them nowhere. Dean did not even attempt to reply to the question. The poor kid was probably too strung out to understand what was being asked of him.

"Just get him up," he said. "Come on, MacLeod. Do it fast."

It was not pleasant. Dean's voice lifted far higher than Adam had thought possible when MacLeod scooped him off the floor. He howled and jerked and buried his face in MacLeod's shoulder to scream again. The trip to the bedroom was mercifully short, and Dean collapsed back to the pillows, panting against whatever agony he was suffering. Jaw clenching, eyes shutting, he gave a strained moan and flung himself to his side again.

The changes were obvious now, Adam noted. Cassandra was right. The young man's hair _was_ longer. His face was also different, structurally. Nothing major—not yet—but there was definitely a change in the jawline and nose. No matter what MacLeod had said earlier, those jeans were Dean's pants, and they _did_ look too big.

Jesus. What were they going to do if Dean changed into a goddamn dog?

"He doesn't look furry," MacLeod said hopefully. Adam gave a bark of laughter. He could not help it. It was just too ludicrous to not laugh.

"He's changing alright," Adam murmured. He sat on the bed, carefully avoiding contact with the pained young man. Leaning close, he spoke gently, "Dean... Dean, you're going to be okay. Just keep breathing."

Dean made a sound between a laugh and a moan. Still, it was progress. He obviously understood that someone was speaking to him. Maybe even got the words, even if he did not believe them.

"Go... fuck yourself..."

Eyebrows lifting, Adam sat up and looked at MacLeod.

"He'll be fine," he decided.

"I don't know if I can just sit here and listen to this," MacLeod admitted.

"Have some bourbon," Adam suggested. "That always knocks me right out."

MacLeod snorted and left the bedroom. Sighing wearily, Adam leaned back against the headboard and settled in for a long few hours.

* * *

 

At some point in the night, Adam fell asleep. It should have been impossible, what with how Dean was constantly shifting, trying to somehow find a position that hurt less. After a while, though, the young man just stopped moving, apparently coming to the conclusion that stillness either hurt less or was just as useless as movement. His breathing steadied into almost regular shallow, hitching gasps. It really was testament to how tired Adam was that he slept, sitting up, on the bed next to that.

Some hours later, Adam woke, surprised that he had been sleeping. Dean was quiet beside him, breathing easily, well and truly unconscious. The change to sudden silence was probably what had woken Adam. Now that it was quiet, however, he was going to sleep again. Shouldering deeper into the pillows behind him, Adam settled in for some much needed rest.


	5. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if dealing with these changes was not enough, Dean still has a case to solve.

Saturday, November 2nd

 

Dean rose to consciousness sluggishly. He no longer hurt, which was a relief he could not possibly appreciate more. Never in his life had he experienced anything quite that painful. Well, that wasn't true. But it _was_ the longest he had ever suffered so terribly. The mere memory of it made him shudder.

It was over now, and he was going to hunt down the bitch that hurt him and put her down. (Or him. Dean did recall that the term witch was not actually gender specific.)

His head ached still, but that was probably caused by exhaustion or dehydration. The nausea that joined it made him think the latter. It kind of felt like he was hung over, actually. Except without the pressing urge to pee.

"Dean?" Adam's voice was only slightly unwelcome, cautiously questing toward him. "Kid, how are you feeling?"

"Hmph," Dean grunted and rubbed at his eyes.

He went still. Something was wrong.

"Dean, did you hear anything Cassandra said last night?" Adam asked.

No, he did not. But that was hardly a concern. What _did_ concern him was how foreign he felt in his own body. That sound he made in the back of his throat? So not his voice. The way his arm moved—not natural. He shifted slightly, and there was sheer, blind panic.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "What's wrong with me?"

"You're okay, Dean," MacLeod's voice broke in, sounding a bit like he was trying to be soothing. "The spell last night, it altered your appearance a bit—"

"The _hell!_ "

Dean lurched back, away from the two men hovering over him, and promptly fell off the side of the bed. Yipping—holy shit, _yipping,_ high and anxious—he hit the floor hard and scrambled to unwrap himself from the massive shirt twisted about his body. His arms were too short, too skinny, and where the hell had his feet gone? He lurched upright and promptly pitched forward. Okay, feet found, and they had tripped him up in the excess material of his jeans.

Gentle hands—frigging big hands—caught his shoulders and helped him upright.

"Dean, everything is going to be okay," MacLeod said again. What the hell did he know anyway? Dean was in a stranger's body, and this was _definitely not okay!_ "You really need to calm down."

"How is this okay?" His voice was high, shrill, and that so was not coming from him. There was hair hanging in his face. He _never_ had hair long enough that it hung in his face. Whose body was he in? Who was in _his_ body? "How the _hell_ is this okay?"

"It's a spell, and it changed your appearance," MacLeod said urgently, getting in Dean's face. Right where Dean did not want him to be. When the hell had MacLeod gotten so huge? Okay, so the man had always been big, but _not that big!_ "Cassandra says it should be reversible once we find out who did this and what they did."

"Which means you need to calm down," Adam added pointedly.

"Okay," Dean gulped in desperate breaths. Calm. _Calm_. Yeah, that wasn't happening so easily. "Son of a bitch! What did that bitch change me into?"

Everything was off balance. Dean was pretty sure the only reason he was upright was because MacLeod was holding him. The pants were a problem. His feet were caught up in the long legs of his jeans, and his hands—his too-small hands—kept trying to disappear in the sleeves of his shirt.

"Just be grateful you weren't changed into an animal," Adam said wryly. "Cassandra suggested that one to be possible. You're still human."

"Barely!" Dean snapped. "Get off me!"

MacLeod let him shake off those huge hands. Dean had no illusions that he would not be getting free if the big man chose to hold on. That was a scary thought, so he pushed it aside and dropped back to the bed. He felt like an idiot rolling up the bottoms of his jeans, but there were the missing feet—too small!—and he needed those to make it to a room with a mirror.

"When I get my hands on that bitch, I'm going to _kill_ her!" he growled.

"Not until you find out the spell she used," Adam reminded him. "Unless you want to be stuck like this."

"Thank you, Adam!" Dean glared over his shoulder at the man. The bastard was _smiling_. "That's very helpful!"

"First we have to find out who did this," MacLeod said.

"Someone who was in that dorm last night," Dean said without hesitation. It had to be. This was some serious hoodoo. And he had bled in the dorm. Someone had gotten hold of his blood and whammied him. He supposed he should be grateful they didn't just take it and make him leap off a cliff somewhere.

He did not wait for a response from the men hovering over him. Shoving off the bed, he went straight for the door that presumably led to a bathroom in MacLeod's room. He had to see what he was dealing with here. Plus, a shower seemed in order. He felt he had spent his entire night sweating like he was running a marathon.

The large wall mirror brought him up short, and he cursed again. The difference was far more than just his height. His hair was much longer than it had been the night before, but it actually looked like his hair. He had always preferred to keep his hair military short for the simple reason that it would otherwise get in the way. One time of having a creature use his hair as a hand grip was enough to convince him that long hair was bad. Plus, when his hair got long it got wavy and stupid.

Now, his hair was long—like shoulder-length long—and yes, there were the damned waves. His face was smaller, finer boned, and smooth. His face had not been that smooth since before he hit puberty. At least his eyes looked the same. Mostly. They looked a little too big, really, set in a smaller face.

"Oh hell," Dean breathed.

The bitch had turned him into a _bitch_.

The face looking back at him was one he would have hit on in a bar. Now it was his face. There was definitely going to be some death. At the very least, a brutal beating.

"MacLeod had some clothes here from the last time Amanda was around," Adam's voice made him jump. Dean looked at the man, noting the height difference now. Adam was near MacLeod's height, near Dean's usual height. If they stood next to each other, Dean was certain his head _might_ reach Adam's shoulder. Adam seemed not to notice, simply holding out a bundle of clothes. "The pants might be a little long, but they'll fit better than your usual clothes."

"That's great," Dean said "Just thank him for dressing me all this week." He paused, then looked at Adam in horror. "I'm going to have to wear a bra!"

The bastard did not even make a good show of trying not to grin. There it was, broad and rude, spread across Adam's face. Dean wanted to deck him.

"There's a sports bra in there that might fit," Adam said, shoving the clothes into Dean's arms. Dean accepted them dumbly. "Get cleaned up. MacLeod's making breakfast."

The door shut, and Dean snapped out of his stupor.

"It might be nice to have a little sympathy here!" he hollered. Mouth snapping shut at the sound echoing around him in the bathroom, he came to a quick resolution that he would never shout like that again. He sounded like a whiny bitch with the way his voice was up in the higher registers.

The shower was hellish. Dean had no problems with women in practice. Sex was good. Shower sex was good too. Women's bodies were soft and curvy and just so fun to explore. Except when that body was something he could feel outside of his own hands. With parts missing, other parts added on, he was not sure how to deal with it. Somehow, turning into some furry dog or cat would have been better than this. At least then there would have been no pretenses of being something close to what he really should be. Now, touching his own body felt _wrong_.

"Goddamn it," he cursed when his usual amount of shampoo was not enough. He grabbed the bottle and tried again. Conditioner was for sissies with long hair. MacLeod, naturally, had some. Dean read the back of the bottle. Did people seriously deal with this shit every day? Unbelievable. He set the bottle back on the rack without opening it. He had to draw a line somewhere.

He made it through the shower without incident, wrapped his head in a towel, and went about figuring out the clothes. MacLeod had provided a bra—sports bra, Adam called it—but there was no underwear. No way in hell was he going without underwear.

A quick shout out the door had MacLeod stumbling over himself to reach him. At least _one_ of the guys here was worried about him. Adam was just a dick.

"What's wrong?" MacLeod blurted, then came up short. Incredibly, he blushed and looked away. Dean glanced down. Okay, so he was dressed in only a towel, but there was no need to get all uptight about it. It was not like MacLeod was the one with tits.

"Oh, get over it," Dean snapped. "Did Adam get my stuff last night?"

Clearing his throat, MacLeod gave a curt nod and hurried out of his room. He came back, dumped Dean's duffel in his arms, and retreated again.

"Get your head out of the gutter, MacLeod!" Dean called after him.

This sucked so much. His own underwear was too big, sagging in all the wrong places, but it was better than going without. He pulled on the rest of the clothes he had been given and was mildly satisfied at the choice. This foreign body was not overly endowed, for which he supposed he should be grateful, and the sports bra did wonders for keeping everything in its proper place. The jeans were outdated and baggy, sitting high on his waist in such a way as he had not seen since the nineties. The shirt was too tight for comfort. It was not ill-fitting by any means, but it clung to him in a way that none of his usual clothes ever did. A quick glance in the mirror informed him that he was not comfortable with _that_ look, so he dug a flannel shirt out of his bag and pulled it on. He had to roll up the sleeves, but it did a good job hiding the fact that he had curves that should not be there.

Adam must have used the shower in the other bathroom. The man was looking fresh and slightly damp where he sat at the kitchen counter. Both men looked up, MacLeod looking anxious and worried, Adam just smiling.

"Not a word," Dean cautioned the smart ass of the group. "Seriously? Not one word."

Taking the warning to heart, Adam grinned, shrugged, and took a sip of orange juice.

"You planning on going back to the dorms?" MacLeod asked. He had been making breakfast, just as Adam said, and there were eggs over easy, toast, hash browns and juice. It looked far too good to pass up.

"You're damn right," Dean hopped up on a stool that yesterday he had only had to lean back to sit on. He found that if he just pretended everything was higher than normal, it was not so awkward.

"Are you sure it's not Marina?" MacLeod put a plate and a glass of orange juice in front of Dean. Thirst was the first to make itself known, so Dean gulped down the juice. Startled, MacLeod grabbed the carton of orange juice and put that in front of Dean as well. "Cassandra said she was rather focused on your gender as a barrier to any normal sympathy."

"Apt punishment," Dean grumbled. "Nah, it wasn't her. We came to an understanding—after I kicked that b—Cassandra out of the room."

Because Cassandra was a friend of MacLeod, and at the moment he did not need to make enemies with a man who probably weighed twice what he did now. Adam might defend him, but with the way the man was still grinning, Dean had his doubts.

"An understanding?" MacLeod demanded.

"As in that's none of your business," Dean glared at him. "Just trust me. I'm good at this shit. It wasn't her."

MacLeod looked ready to press the issue, but Adam cut him off.

"Leave it, MacLeod," the other man ordered sharply. Dean glanced at him, surprised at the interference. When Adam looked back, his gaze was actually serious. "It's a good point, though. What other motivation would there be for this spell? Why choose to change you into a woman?"

They had a point. A really good one. And there had been one other person there, one who had caused him to cut himself.

"Morgan!" Dean blurted, momentarily forgetting about the toast in his hand. Of course! How could he have been so stupid? She had been there, had been noticeably unimpressed by his presence. And seriously? What kind of person carried glasses made from actual glass around a busy dormitory? That was just asking for trouble.

Adam and MacLeod were looking to him for an explanation.

"There was this other girl in the room with Marina last night," he said. "Her friend or something. She left when Cassandra did, saying some shit about going to the library. But she didn't leave. She hung around and broadsided me later, spilling glass all over the place—I cut my hand open helping her pick it up. I didn't think about it at the time because it all seemed so plausible."

"So she got your blood," Adam said. "Is it possible it could have been someone else? Someone within hearing range of your conversation? They could have talked that girl into helping."

"It was Morgan."

Dean stuffed the rest of his toast in his mouth and hurried over to the table where his research was still waiting. It was shoved around, messy from him sleeping on it and knocking it around when he collapsed the night before, but it was all still there. Wiping his crumbs off on his shirt, he rifled through the pages looking for something Adam had printed out the night before. It took a while, but he found the page he had been searching for.

"What's that?" Adam's voice just over his ear had Dean jerking to the side. Adam pulled back, holding up his hands when Dean glared at him. As soon as his heart rate settled back to normal, Dean held out the page.

"Morgan Heller," he said. "Marina Cortes's roommate."

"That's kind of a stretch," MacLeod said, approaching far more cautiously than Adam had. Dean did not appreciate the kid gloves, but he understood why the man was acting so careful around him. "Most kids are barely aware of their roommates through college. Trying to be that close to someone you're sharing that small a room with is usually asking for trouble."

"You call four dead people something other than trouble?" Dean countered. "I'd be willing to bet Marina told her roommate about her sicko professor and the counselor. Plus, that means _both_ of them were neighbors to Sara. The other kid'll fit in there somewhere. I bet we can find out how if we talk to Marina again."

"How do you expect to do that?" Adam asked curiously. "You'll have to come up with one hell of a story for her to talk to you instead of the guy she saw last night."

Dean stared at Adam blankly. There was definitely cursing happening now, loud in his head. The guy was right after all. Gaining Marina's trust the first time had been a bitch. Now he wasn't anyone. He was a girl. Some strange girl who shouldn't exist, didn't have a history to use, nothing. No way would Marina talk to him like this. Asking Cassandra was out of the question. Marina had not liked her either.

"Damn it," Dean hissed. "This is seriously messed up."

Then, because his life wasn't screwed enough as it was, his phone rang. Dean stared at the cell, buzzing over the table, silently demanding to know why it hated him so very much. Reluctantly, he picked it up, reading the unfamiliar number on the display.

Right. He could answer this one. If he didn't know the number, maybe he wouldn't know the person on the other end. (Of course, if it was his dad calling from a pay phone or some other nonsense, he was going to just find a hole to curl up in and die.)

Grimacing, he flipped the phone open.

"Hello?" Oh yeah. No one would ever believe that girly voice actually belonged to Dean Winchester.

_"...Hello?"_ He didn't recognize the voice. It was not often that he had a girl call him, for one. Most girls took his number and never called him back after a romp through the sheets. It was one of those courtesy things. Exchange numbers, say 'I'll see you around,' and never talk again. Everyone knew how it worked. So why the hell was one calling him now? _"I'm looking for Dean Smith. Is he there?"_

Oh hell. Speaking of problems. Their top priority one just chose the worst moment to call.

"Um, he's kind of busy right now," Dean said, wincing as he said it.

_"Please, it's urgent,"_ the girl sounded like she was trying to keep her voice low and not cry all at once.

"Is something wrong?" Dean demanded. "Are you safe?"

_"He said I could call him if anything came up,"_ Marina whimpered. _"Please, if he's there, I need to talk to him now!"_

"I get that," Dean frantically wracked his brain for something he could say to this girl. "Look, sweetheart—" God, that sounded weird coming from a girl's mouth, "Are you in danger? Should I send the cops?"

_"I don't know! Look! My roommate is talking crazy, and I need to talk to him! Please!"_

"What kind of crazy?" Dean asked, perking up at the slipped information. "Miss Cortes, _what kind of crazy_?"

_"...Who are you? I never told you my name."_ Oh crap. He was losing her.

"Hold on! Don't hang up!" Dean blurted. "I'm not trying to scare you anymore than you already are, here. Just... Look, just tell me what kind of crazy, and I'll get someone there to help you, okay? You're still at the dorm? Bathroom, right? You hiding? I can send someone right now to arrest that girl if you need."

The phone clicked. Dead air. The girl had hung up on him.

"Damn it!" Dean shoved the phone in his pocket and went for the door. "We need to get over there now."

"She's not going to take it any better in person," Adam cautioned.

"I don't care!" Dean pulled on his coat, then cursed again, shucking it when it proved to be too large. "God _damn_ it! I don't even have shoes that fit!"

"We'll get you some," MacLeod assured him. "Meth—Adam. We'll take my car."

Dean did not protest. Adam caught the keys MacLeod tossed at him and was out the door, Dean hot on his heels. They piled into the small car, Dean claiming shotgun without thought to how MacLeod would stuff himself into that back seat. Somehow, the big guy did it, and they were peeling through the city streets, completely ignoring the speed limits.

* * *

No one seemed to notice or care that three grown men—okay, two grown men and a woman without shoes or a coat—were running across the dorm grounds on a Saturday morning. MacLeod reached the door first, waving his ID at the lock and yanking the door open. Heedless of his bare feet which had to be sore, Dean skidded across the tile floor and to the next door where he waited impatiently for MacLeod to again unlock it.

"She's on the sixth floor!" Adam protested when Dean went for the stairs. Because really? Six flights of stairs? Yeah, he could do it, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"That elevator moves slower than an old lady with a walker!" Dean snarled. And yes, it really was funny listening to that husky feminine voice when Adam knew what it should sound like. Wisely, he said nothing about it. "If you can't handle it, we'll meet you up there!"

Shamed into walking, Adam and MacLeod both hurried up the stairwell behind him. The protest had been a token complaint. The run did not cause any of them to breathe too heavily by the time they reached the sixth floor.

Fortunately, no one was around, or there would have been a lot of trouble with the gun in Dean's hands. It was still early—not even after nine—on a Saturday morning after all. The hallways were empty, the only door open being the one to Marina's room. It was empty as well.

"Crap," Dean growled, gun lowering automatically. Adam glanced around for a bathroom door. Dean had mentioned it in the call before, and he suspected with good reason. MacLeod had the same idea and found it first.

"Over here," MacLeod said, stopping outside a closed door. The light was on inside, and the door was clearly marked a restroom. Little human outline on a plaque and all. Dean and Adam made their way over to him, even as MacLeod knocked on the door. "Miss Cortes?"

Dean leaned in, touching his ear to the door. He glanced at them and nodded. The girl was in there.

"Miss Cortes, my name is Duncan MacLeod," MacLeod said gently, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard through the door but hopefully not loud enough to wake everyone else up. "I'm a professor here at the university. It's been drawn to our attention that you're in some trouble, and I'm here to help. Please open this door, Miss Cortes."

They waited, barely daring to breathe. When nothing happened, Dean nodded again at the door, urging MacLeod to keep talking. Grimacing, he tapped on the door again to let the frightened girl know he was still there.

"Look, Miss Cortes," MacLeod pleaded. It was really too bad she could not see him. One look at those puppy eyes and she would be tripping over herself to accommodate. MacLeod just had that effect on women. "I'm just trying to help. I'm not even going to make you leave the dorms. Just... come out and talk to me."

A minute later, the doorknob clicked, lock disengaged. Adam nudged Dean, nodded significantly at his hands, and Dean reluctantly tucked his gun into the back of his pants. Truly there was no need to frighten the girl. At least, not more than she already was.

The door cracked open, and Marina peered out at them suspiciously. His smile both calming and relieved, MacLeod stepped back to give her room. She frowned at him, then looked over Dean and Adam. Her gaze paused on Adam, and he wondered if he should be worried.

"You're Professor Pierson," she said softly. Ah. She recognized him. That could be useful.

"Yes," Adam agreed. "Have you taken my class?"

She shook her head.

"But Sara did," she whispered. Adam's smile dropped.

"Yes, she did," he agreed softly. "Miss Cortes, we're trying to help. This is... Deanna."

Okay, it was not particularly clever, but he needed to explain the appearance of an unfamiliar woman. Judging from the look on Dean’s face, he hated it, but the man-turned-woman managed to bring forth a weak smile. Had Adam not been able to see his young pre-immortal friend behind that fair face, he might have found this girl attractive. As it was, there were enough physical similarities to Dean-as-a-man’s features that it was hard to truly believe that there was a woman beneath that baggy clothing.

“She’s the reason we’re here,” Adam continued with his story. “You called her brother’s phone.”

Marina looked a little suspicious still, watery eyes moving over them warily.

"Deanna and Dean," she sniffed. "Some parents. Where's your brother?"

"He's not well," MacLeod said. "Miss Cortes, you mentioned your roommate was acting strange."

Sniffing again, Marina glanced down the hallway.

"Not here," she said.

Following her lead, they stepped back, letting her lead the way back to her room. MacLeod hovered closest, searching their surroundings like an overgrown guard dog. Dean trailed behind them, hesitating a moment before closing the door. They moved together, the two immortal men automatically falling back to let Dean do his thing. After all, in this situation, the younger man was the most experienced.

Marina moved around the room, making her bed like she was embarrassed to have it messy while she had company. It was a nervous tic, Adam understood. She was upset and needed to keep herself in motion.

 “Morgan was angry at me and left,” she said finally. “She probably won’t be back for a while.”

"What did she say?" Dean asked curiously. "When you said crazy..."

That was a reference to the phone call. Dean had explained it on the way to the campus. Fear-filled brown eyes turned on them.

"Morgan was always there for me," she said. "I just... she started talking like she was _glad_ Ms. Abram and the professor were dead. Sara and Corey too! I mean, she used to _date_ Corey!” Adam’s eyes narrowed. There was the connection to the first male victim. “I can't believe she would ever really want him dead. Maybe Sara. Morgan always blamed her for stealing away Corey, but those two had broken up a long time before Sara came around. I mean, I understood, but... but this is crazy! She started talking about Dean, and him finally understanding what it was like!"

"Wait," Dean jumped on that one, and Adam could see why. It made sense in a sick sort of way. Everything was falling together. "Understanding what it's like for what?"

"For a girl!" Marina insisted. She rubbed her eyes and looked at Dean. "I mean, you would know, right? About when he was attacked?"

Adam looked at Dean sharply. What?

“The whole thing with Professor Johnston—he really got it.”

Holy shit. No wonder Dean had been so pissed over the situation. Adam had known his agitation had to have stemmed from _something_ , but he had to admit he wasn’t pleased about it being for that kind of reason. If this boy ever became an honest immortal, they would have to address this. Trauma could drive new immortals toward destructive behavior.

“But Morgan didn't know. She said he was going to know. And, I mean, she was getting _really_ crazy about it. Like, _delusional_ crazy."

Crap. He had to pay attention. This really was not the time to contemplate Dean’s ugly past.

"Like, witchcraft kind of crazy?" Dean asked. It was not a smooth or nice transition, but it got the girl's attention. Marina blinked at him in surprise.

"Um, yeah," she said uncertainly. "It was kind of insane, really. She kept trying to explain it to me—saying she could actually turn him _into a girl_."

"She, um, she said that?" Adam asked, trying again not to laugh. He and MacLeod glanced at Dean. Dean, naturally, just looked pissed.

"Yeah," Marina picked up a stuffed bear that had been sitting near her pillow and hugged it to her stomach, glancing at the three of them uneasily. "That's what she said."

"And then _you_ did what any normal person would," Dean said. Adam watched him curiously. Dean’s eyes were darting here and there, searching the room for something. One of those hex bag things? "You freaked out and called her crazy." Marina's eyes were growing wide. She nodded, and Dean continued, "And she got pissed and started ranting about how you, of all people, should understand."

"Yeah," Marina breathed. "How do you _know_ all this?"

"Crazy Witch Psych 101," Dean dragged a hand over his face, the gesture way too masculine for those delicate features. He grimaced, looking uncomfortable. Though he _was_ amused, Adam felt a pang of sympathy. He could not imagine how he would react if he were the one in Dean’s situation. Probably not as well as Dean had. "Right, how long was she alone in here?"

"I don't know," Marina looked between them, growing increasingly upset. "I don't—maybe ten or fifteen minutes? I heard her leave a few minutes before you got here."

Dean swore. Adam exchanged an uneasy glance with MacLeod. This whole supernatural business was out of their league, and Dean wasn’t sharing right now. Certainly not with Marina standing in their midst. Which meant they were about as useful as sunscreen in a rain storm. Until Dean clued them in, they would just stand there looking big and intimidating.

"What's wrong?" Marina demanded. Dean shot her a dark look.

"She's going to kill you next," he told her.

"You can't be serious!" Marina looked at them wildly. "I mean, she was crazy, but..."

"First off—and you're not going to like this, but tough shit, kid—your roommate?" Dean abruptly pushed around the girl, rooting through her newly made bedding. Marina protested, but he just shouldered her aside and spoke over her indignation. "Crazy, but not in the way you think. Her crazy comes from the fact that she's killing people because they pissed her off."

"You can't expect me to believe that Morgan is actually performing magic," Marina objected. "Hey! That's my bed!"

Adam caught her arm and eased her back when Dean overturned the mattress. MacLeod, of course, was a little less helpful.

"Dean!" MacLeod exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for a hex bag," he said. "Morgan is threatened and angry, and there's going to be another suicide if we don't find it and destroy it."

"You're crazy, too," Marina whimpered. Adam winced at the manicured fingers that suddenly dug into his arm.

"Kid, I _wish_ I was crazy," Dean snapped. "If I was crazy, then maybe medication would make all this shit go away. But you know what?" He whirled on her, looking appropriately manic. His eyes fell on the bear clutched close to her chest, and he snatched it out of her hands. "I've been a girl for six hours, and I hate it already. So I'm going to save your ass, find your messed up friend, and make her change me back. Okay?"

Well. That was blunt. Adam sighed. He was so going to lose his job over this mess of crazy. Unless she suddenly died on them. Except then he would have to explain his presence. Yep. Job lost—crazy professors or murdering sickos. Neither sounded better than the other.

The sound of ripping material and Marina’s distressed cry snapped Adam back to the present. Dean had ripped into the bear like a bullying big brother (or sister, as was this particular case). He yanked out a small bag with a triumphant cry. Hardly a beat passed before he tossed it at MacLeod, whose reflexes were good enough that he did not immediately drop it.

"Take that somewhere without sprinklers and burn it," Dean said, pointing at the fire detector over their heads. MacLeod nodded curtly and left the room. It was amazing how watching someone change from male to female overnight could make a man accept some pretty strange orders. "Adam, make sure Morgan doesn't come back—she's a pale girl with dyed black hair. About five-six, five-seven."

"A little taller than you, then?" Adam asked wryly, unable to resist the dig at Dean’s shortened stature. Even so, he did as he was asked, standing just outside the room, watching down the hallway. It was still empty. No wonder, considering the hour and the day. No college student in his or her right mind was up yet.

"I am going to kick your ass if you don't shut the hell up about this," Dean hissed.

“We’ll get it fixed, kid,” Adam replied. “Just take it easy and have a little fun, why don’t you? Cassandra said it wasn’t life threatening.”

"Oh, my god."

It seemed that Marina had come out of her haze. Adam glanced into the room to be sure Dean would be okay. If the girl went crazy on them, it could be bad. She was bigger than Dean was presently. Admittedly, Dean was a trained fighter, but he was probably off balance in that body.

He need not have worried. Marina was just staring at Dean like she was seeing someone she had believed to be dead. She reached out to him just as he turned toward her, and he flinched at the fingers touching his face. It was a natural human inclination to touch what the mind told them they're eyes could not possibly be seeing. Marina was doing it now, brushing hesitant fingers across Dean’s cheeks.

Sighing heavily, Dean caught her hands and held them gently between his. He met the girl's wide, shocked gaze and held it. Adam glanced down the empty hallway, then back, his new concern having nothing to do with Dean’s physical safety. The kid had been dealing well, but he had not been given much time to think about what had been done to him. Now, Marina was shoving it in his face. Adam did not know him well enough to know how he would respond to it.

"I'm sorry, kid," Dean said softly. "I really wish I could tell you your friend _is_ delusional, but she's not. This? Yeah, it's real."

"You... you're Dean," Marina whispered. She searched his face, no doubt trying to find something that matched to the person she had met the previous night. "Your eyes are exactly the same. I don't know how I missed that."

"Maybe because it's not really commonplace to look at a girl and think, _hey_! Wasn't that the guy I met yesterday?" Dean said in a weak jest. "If it makes you feel any better, I almost had a coronary this morning. The two professors out there? Had to talk me down from the ceiling."

They both glanced out the door. Adam shrugged, caught listening and not really caring.

"Deanna," Marina murmured.

Ah. A jab to the creatively lacking name Adam had pulled forth in the heat of the moment. He smiled wryly.

“You wouldn’t have believed us otherwise,” he pointed out. “Actually, I’m pretty sure Dean doesn’t have a sister.”

He was positive Dean did not have any siblings whatsoever. At least, not by blood. Dean, of course, did not know this.

"No girls in my family," Dean confirmed. "Just a gigantor little brother."

"No mother would have let her son hustle pool in a seedy bar," Marina mumbled.

"Sweetheart, if my mom was still alive, I so would not be standing here with tits," Dean said, then paused. "That has to be the strangest thing I have ever said."

A hysterical little laugh burbled out of the girl. Dean squeezed her hands, gently calling her back to the present.

"Marina—can I call you Marina?" She nodded. "I know this is screwed up, but I deal with this shit every day. I'm going to protect you, but I need you to cooperate with me. Adam and MacLeod? They’re good people.” Adam noted that Dean kindly left out the part where he had stalked the younger man and practically held him hostage. Apparently Dean had gotten past that part. That, or he just didn’t want to cause another panic. "We'll take you someplace safe until this has blown over, okay?"

“Okay,” Marina agreed. She was not going to stop staring at Dean anytime soon, Adam decided. It was difficult to overcome that kind of challenge to what a person knew to be the way of the world. Human beings did not just spontaneously change gender after all. Adam glanced down the hall when Dean nodded and pushed the girl toward her closet.

“Good. Pack,” he ordered.

* * *

They met MacLeod outside the dormitory. He jogged across the yard to them, looking annoyed and a little blackened around the eyebrows. Adam wrinkled his nose at the foul stink of smoke and something distinctly rotten drifted toward him. Dean and Marina both recoiled, equal expressions of disgust on their faces.

“Dude, what happened?” Dean blurted, hand muffling his voice as he tried to block out the worst of the smell. Adam had smelled worse, but he could not rightly recall when. Long ago. “Tell me it burned.”

“It’s destroyed,” MacLeod agreed irritably. “Once it actually caught fire, it practically exploded in my face. What was in it?”

“Probably just some old bones, hair, and herbs,” Dean mumbled. “Christ. You stink, man.”

Adam had managed to refrain from pinching his nose against the odor, but he could not refrain from laughing. MacLeod glared at him, but the Highlander’s fury was hardly worth mentioning. After all, his face was ashy, his hair frizzy, and he smelled like a garbage dump where an animal had recently died. Dean announcing it like that was funny.

“Roll the windows down,” MacLeod said sourly. “Because I’m driving.”

“Oh crap,” Dean grimaced.

Adam had to say, he was not happy either.

* * *

They stopped at MacLeod’s place to drop off the smelly Highlander. Taking his place behind the wheel, Adam glanced to the back where the two girls sat. Of course, he would never refer to Dean as a girl to his face. Not if he wanted any cooperation from the young hunter. But there was no denying it. Had he not seen the transformation himself, he would never believe this young woman and Dean were one and the same. It was kind of amazing that Marina had accepted it so quickly.

“Where to next?” he asked mildly.

“We should get Marina someplace safe,” Dean said immediately. He looked at the college student. “You got someone you trust around here?”

“My parents live in the next town over,” Marina said dubiously. “I don’t know what I’ll tell them.”

“Tell them the truth,” Dean said in such a frank way that both Adam and Marina looked at him incredulously. Adam would have thought the hunter was joking, but there was no smirk to indicate it. Dean rolled his eyes, and Adam sighed with relief. “Tell them your roommate threatened to kill you.”

Marina gave a shaky laugh. Adam shot her a wary look. Here it came. The shock was about to kick in.

“When she started going on like that, I thought she was going to try to hire some thugs to send after you,” she admitted. Yep. There were the tears. “Then she went on about the other stuff…” Dean shifted uncomfortably when she gestured vaguely in his direction. Adam pursed his lips to keep from smiling. There really was nothing funny in this situation. Really. “I’m not sure if she’s not still planning something. She’s insane enough to do it.”

“Honey, I can take care of myself,” Dean said awkwardly. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

“But you’re smaller now—smaller than me—and—oh my god! Is that a gun?”

There was nothing like a semi-automatic Colt revolver to quiet someone down. Dean cocked a finely arched eyebrow—Adam needed to get his mind away from this feminine side of the kid, but… damn it was funny—checked the weapon, then tucked it back where it had been hidden beneath his shirt.

“I had it last night too,” Dean said.

Marina flinched and looked surprisingly sad.

“You’re not really a counselor with the school, are you?” she asked softly.

“Not so much,” Dean agreed. “I’m trying to stop the killings at this school. You were a suspect.”

“Then everything you said, you just said it to get me to talk.” Ooh. Loss of trust. Adam hated when that happened. Still, they were going to ditch this girl soon, so it didn’t particularly matter what she thought.

“ _Yeah_ , I was trying to get you to talk!” Dean winced, probably because his voice was so shrill when he yelped like that. Adam sighed. This could get ugly. If Marina bolted, they were just going to have one more problem to worry about. “I never would have shared that with you if I didn’t think it would get you to talk. It’s ugly, and I don’t like thinking about it. Jesus! Even my brother doesn’t know about that one.”

Adam really wanted to ask, but Dean was still capable of that frosty glare. It was an excellent deterrent, not even requiring the use of words to explain that he wanted no prying questions. The kid had enough on his plate right now, what with suddenly being female and having another weepy female hounding him for information. Adam figured the least he could do was cut him some slack. For now.

“So the story was true,” Marina murmured.

Dean’s face twisted in such a way that he was no longer quite as pretty as he had been. Adam was intrigued, openly stared, mentally comparing the expression to the same created by more masculine features. It was interesting how that expression looked almost ugly on a girl but merely comical on a guy. It was a double standard, of course, but Adam had never been one to try to pretend these did not exist. He did not embrace the chauvinistic tendencies MacLeod had, but he was aware that a woman was a woman and a man was a man, and there were definite differences.

“Is this a story that can be shared with the class?” Adam asked abruptly. Dean was not going to like the question, but he needed to draw the attention back to the situation at hand. Like getting Marina someplace safe.

Sure enough, Dean shot him a dirty look.

“Bite me,” the hunter snarled.

The opportunity to respond was lost in an instant. Dean’s expression went from irritated to startled, which rapidly morphed into fear and anger. The transformation all took place in less than a second, a slightly shorter amount of time than it took for the window behind Adam to shatter.

Marina shrieked, but after the car window breaking, it was difficult to be startled by something as mundane as a girl’s scream. Adam’s first instinct was to see who had broken his window, but something hard and cool touched his temple, and he stilled. Tempered glass clinked around him, probably getting into his seat. He was not pleased with the prospect of having to dig glass shards out of his ass later, but he was not about to move when there was a gun pointed at him.

Head shots were such a pain.

“Back off, asshole,” Dean’s voice deepened when he was serious, even in the more feminine registers. Adam did not doubt the hunter had his gun drawn with the full intent of shooting the guy who was threatening them. The question was: who was faster? Dean or the other guy.

“Not so fast, sweetheart.”

Adam looked at the guy to his left. He wasn’t anyone familiar, but then again Adam never really mingled with the thugs of the town. There really were not many—a few roughnecks who usually stayed along the outskirts of town—and making friends with the outcasts was more MacLeod’s thing anyway. He sneered, showing off the dark space where he was missing his eye tooth. Classy.

“You seem to think we’re on even ground here. But we’ve got two hostages, and you’ve got one gun. You can’t stop both of us.”

A quick glance back proved the man right. The guy had not broken the back window, but there was another gun, and that glass would not withstand a bullet. If it had been Joe or MacLeod holding the gun instead of Dean, this one would be a no brainer. But Dean was an unaware man (okay, woman) and was not going to let Adam get shot if he could help it. Experience told Adam that trying to make a convincing argument otherwise would be a waste of time. People—even hunters—tended to have to see it to believe it, and that meant that they were now at a complete disadvantage.

Usually having the private alley behind MacLeod’s loft was a convenience. Now, it felt kind of like a death trap. So much for keeping Dean alive. Adam wondered if the young hunter would turn back into his male self after dying, or if the spell would hold him in that female state for the rest of eternity.

“Throw your gun out the window behind you,” their mugger ordered.

Dean hissed, but Adam heard the window go down. A clatter indicated the weapon was no longer in the vehicle. Damn.

“Now what?” Dean asked harshly. “You got a plan for getting three people out of here without anyone noticing?”

“All three of you? No.”

The sharp report of a firearm was the last thing Adam heard for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I am aware that genderbending is not unique. It just happened to work with the theme of the story. I swear I'm trying to keep it from being a carbon copy of all the other genderbent fics out there!


	6. Saturday: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean faces down a psychotic girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter gets a little hairy. It's not terribly graphic, but do heed my original warnings.

Saturday, November 2nd, continued

 

“ _Adam!_ ”

Another time, Dean might have been disturbed at the way his voice lifted into the upper registers. Never in his life had he _shrieked_ like that, but that was Adam’s brain blown across the front seat. He was starting to kind of like the asshole, too. And the only reason Adam was now dead was because he had been trying to protect Dean.

He did not have much time to deal with the loss, however. Even as he lunged, an arm reached through his window and yanked him back. Marina was screaming, but there was no time to think about that either. Because at that point there was a foul smelling rag in his face, and he did not have the lung power to hold his breath.

He was unconscious in seconds.

* * *

There were some ups and downs when it came to being very old. The biggest problem with being the oldest creature on the planet was that all the other immortals seemed to think he was a very valuable head to have. Thus came along Methos—the myth. It was not his true name. He did not rightly remember his birth name or if he even had one. Methos came along originally when he had tried his stint as Death. Because Death was such an uncouth-sounding name. Methos was more mysterious, more elusive. Very him. After ditching that job, he picked up names like a hobby. Like Benjamin. Or John. Turner. Matthew. Adam. Generic, forgettable, and utterly anonymous.

Protected from the hunters of the immortal pack, he aged as normally as an Immortal could—year by year, decade, century. Until he was well over five thousand, and all he remembered of his youth was that he must have, at one point, been young.

Then came the perks. For example, he was far more sensitive to the presence of other immortals than most. Duncan was a highly attuned warrior, but even he would sense another immortal’s presence several seconds after Adam already knew. Then came the recovery time. New immortals could go for hours before waking from mortal wounds. Head shots were particularly nasty. Adam, on the other hand, had woken from chest shots in under sixty seconds. If his heart was hit, it usually took a little longer—a few minutes at least.

Head shots, on the other hand, were not pleasant. The best Adam could figure was that even immortals had a difficult time reconstructing nervous tissue. In humans, once brain or other nervous tissue was dead, it stayed that way. While there were some workarounds, it did not repair or replace itself like skin or other organs did. With immortals, this was obviously not true. They fixed whatever was wrong, no matter how severe—save the removal of a limb… or the head. With _Adam_ , recovering from a head shot still took extra time. Ten minutes. Twenty at the most.

Dean and Marina were both missing from the car when Adam recovered enough to look around. His head ached, no doubt a residual of his body forcing a bullet from his skull and then repairing the damage. It would fade soon, so he ignored it to push his door open and stumble out of the car. There was a lot of blood, but from the look of it, most of it was in the car, and all of it had belonged to him. The back seat was remarkably unscathed, but for a splattering of blood. After they shot him, he was afraid they were going to kill Dean and Marina outright, but there were no bodies.

That was good and bad. Taking only the women—and they would see Dean as nothing less presently—implied a rather unpleasant purpose. Kidnappers did what they did for one of three reasons: politics, money or psychopathic intent. Ignoring the man of the group suggested it was a gender thing, which was very not good. Adam hated to admit it, but he was betting Marina would survive sexual assault with only a bit of mental scarring. Dean, on the other hand, was not used to being female. If they went after the hunter, there was no telling how Dean would respond.

As Adam had already noted, bad history made for bad immortals. He really had to find those two.

Whipping out his cell phone, Adam called even as he ran to MacLeod’s loft.

“Adam? Are you still here?” MacLeod could sense his presence.

“Boot up the computer,” Adam ordered. “I need to hack the phone company and trace Dean’s cell.”

“What—”

“He’s gone, MacLeod,” Adam explained hurriedly. “Marina too. Just after you left. Some guys shot me and took them.”

MacLeod’s door was open, the computer ready and waiting. The Highlander also kindly provided a wet kitchen towel, which Adam used to clean away the worst of the blood which was already drying matted into his hair. His clothes were another thing entirely, but they did not have much time. Adam would just have to try not to get caught up with the police while he was covered in blood. It was his own, but they would have no way of proving it without a trip to the hospital. They certainly did not have time for that. He wasn’t sure they had enough time to activate the GPS chip in Dean’s cell phone in order to find him.

“Idiotic assholes,” Adam growled. “They’re only two blocks over—the start of the warehouse district.”

“On the river?” MacLeod looked at the blinking dot on the screen, memorizing the location. “You say they came when I left?”

“A few minutes later,” Adam agreed. “I couldn’t have been out more than ten minutes.”

“It’s been almost twenty since you dropped me off,” MacLeod declared. “Let’s go get him.”

“Not so fast,” Adam stopped him, though every instinct screamed that they hurry. He wanted to get there fast, but Methos was the eternal planner. It was better to go in smart than to go in fast and half-cocked. “If Morgan had anything to do with this, we’re going to need backup. Call Cassandra.”

“Dean doesn’t trust her,” MacLeod remarked, but he pulled out his cell phone.

“I’m more concerned about keeping him alive than I am about his personal comfort right now,” Adam said harshly. “Give her the address and tell her to meet us there.” He paused only a moment before adding, “Uh… it might be better if you don’t mention me.”

MacLeod’s expression stated he clearly did not need to be told this. Fortunately, he let it drop, turning away to make the cal.

Adam took off his bloodied coat and dug into MacLeod’s closet for something clean to wear. They could not walk with swords in the open, but he would draw attention in blood-stained clothes. MacLeod had plenty of extra clothing, even if the Highlander was twice as broad as any normal man.

“She’ll be there in twenty minutes,” MacLeod said. “We should check it out. If the witch is not involved, we would be foolish to wait.”

Adam did not need to be told this. He was already out the door. Damn it. When had Dean changed from a troublesome assignment to someone Adam desperately needed to see safe and sound?

* * *

Dean had a little experience with drugs. Mostly drugs of the medicinal variety. Aspirin was his friend when his head was aching from being beat on by a poltergeist or a wendigo. More severe injuries occasionally required stronger drugs. Like morphine. Or Percocet. Both were familiar, but mostly he just stuck to strong alcohol or aspirin. No, not together. He wasn’t an idiot.

Liquid and gas-based drugs were new to him. In general, the things he ran up against did not need manmade drugs to take out a guy. They usually took the easy route—such as a two-by-four to the head. Just as effective, if a little more bruising. He was not sure what had been used on him, but he did not like the results.

He supposed he should feel lucky not to be dead. At the moment, however, he was not feeling particularly grateful. His head hurt like a bitch, and even though his eyes were closed, he felt like the world was spinning. It took a great amount of effort to force himself into full wakefulness, and he thought that maybe this was no better than being broadsided by a wall. The only thing that made this feel any different than a concussion was the lacking desire to vomit. Although, if the room continued to rock like that much longer, nausea might become an issue.

Nope. Never mind. His head hurt too much to be bothered with watching the room. Hell, his head hurt just enough to make him not feel like cringing when that high-pitched whiny sound came from his throat.

On the other hand, his head did _not_ hurt enough to make him okay with the hand that gripped his chin, forcing him to stillness. Something rubbed across his lip, and he recoiled, forcing his eyes to open and focus.

He heard and recognized the voice before he was able to comprehend the blurry figure before him.

“Careful!” Female, irritated, rebuking. “You made me smudge.”

Fingers rubbed at his cheek by his mouth, and he glared at the offender. He really was not surprised to see Morgan standing over him, frowning down through eyes lined in way too much black. That Goth look was just not good for her. If she went more natural, she could actually be pretty. Instead, she looked overdone, like a teen trying to be Dracula. Totally not Dean’s type.

He stilled, taking stock of his surroundings. He was in a warehouse of some sort, and he was handcuffed to a chair. Actually, it kind of felt like he was completely locked down—cuffs anchoring each wrist to a leg of the chair, and two more sets of cuffs locking his ankles back the same way. He jerked against the restraints reflexively, and went still again.

The morning had been chilly, but not quite that cold. Was it his imagination, or was it just a bit too drafty in here?

Bewildered, he glanced down. There was a lot of red, a lot of lace, and—holy shit—cleavage. Denial rising sharply in his throat, Dean wrenched his eyes back up. Nope. So not his body. Jesus. As long as he had been so completely wrapped up in masculine clothing, he had been able to pretend he had just gotten shorter—maybe younger. This was not helping his sense of self at all.

“Almost done.” He had almost forgotten about Morgan. The girl had pushed in too close, still touching his face. He stared at her, horrified when she backed off enough to let him see the item in her hand. Was that… lipstick? “You know, you were pretty as a man, but not like this. This is just… wow.”

“Take a picture,” Dean sneered. “Where’s Marina?”

“She’s fine,” Morgan said mildly. To Dean’s horror, she actually did pull out a camera. Or rather, a cell phone. Close enough. She was taking pictures. “Your lips are amazing. And your eyelashes—you really don’t even need the mascara.”

Mascara? Dean was pretty sure he did not want to know. This whole gig as a girl was getting way out of hand. He did not sign up for this glamour shots session.

“Girl, you are so screwed in the head,” he informed her. Normally that would sound calm and collected. Now, with his voice up almost an octave, he just sounded snide.

“I could say the same about you.” Marina sidled closer, camera phone pushing into his face. Grimacing, Dean turned his head away. This was all kinds of awkward. “Your friend just had his head blown off, and you haven’t said a thing about it.”

Focusing on Adam’s death was not going to help Dean out of this situation. Yes, he was upset. Yes, he was angry. But he could mourn later. Right now he had to figure out if his hands would pull out of the cuffs or break first.

“I was thinking about it,” Morgan murmured. “At first I thought I’d just let you wake up to being fucked by some strange guy. But the spell work for that kind of mind control takes too long, and I don’t exactly have the cash to hire someone who won’t turn on me.”

“I’m crying for you,” Dean hissed. That kind of talk combined with the way the girl was pawing at his hair was really causing his stomach to churn. “Really.”

“And then I saw you.” Good God. The girl sat on his lap—like a freakin’ hooker. She slid in, straddled his legs, and sat. Her hand ran up his side, the contact just gross enough to make him shudder. There was cloth between them, something slippery and cool, so at least she wasn’t touching his skin directly. “You might not realize this, but love spells, while complicated, are actually doable. What do you think? A potion to make you fall madly in love with me?”

“Hey, if you can’t get a date without mind control, don’t take it out on me.”

He met her icy glare. Whatever her damage was, he did not care. She could stop touching him, stop reminding him of this doozy of a spell that left him junkless, and get the hell off. He didn’t care what kind of insults he had to throw at her to make it happen.

Morgan smiled, equally cool. Then, she lowered her head and licked his chest.

“What the—personal boundaries, lady!” Dean yelped. He bucked, but she just shoved forward and settled in on his hips. She buried her face in his neck, and he squirmed again at the tongue tasting the skin behind his ear.

“And then I thought, maybe I could just make you obey my every whim,” she murmured. Goddamn it, her hands were moving again, touching everything that she could reach. It was beyond uncomfortable. And a bit humiliating, to tell the truth. “You’ll be aware, but you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

“You’re sick,” Dean grunted.

Then her hand slid up his thigh. Okay, that was not pleasant at all. For one, no one should be touching there uninvited. Second, there was nothing between her hand and his skin, and Dean definitely had a problem with that. Yes, there was fabric there—whatever stupid scrap of lace the bitch had put on him when he was out—and it barely covered the essentials from what he could feel. When her arm hit the skirt— _holy hell, he was in a skirt_ —and forced the fabric to crinkle up and away, he nearly cracked.

“Get your hands offa me, bitch!”

Okay. So he totally cracked. Because this was not happening to him. Dean was not sitting in some abandoned warehouse with a crazy witch who got her rocks off feeling up men who she had turned into women. And that was one of the weirdest things he had ever thought.

“You’re scared now,” Morgan murmured. She bit gently into his neck, worrying at the skin. Denial seemed good right now, because yanking on the cuffs was getting him nowhere. Maybe if he just insisted to himself that none of this was _real_. “Not feeling real good about yourself right now, are you?”

“I’m thinking you’re grossing me out enough that I might throw up on you,” Dean choked out.

What the hell was with this body? Tears had risen, and he was not sure why. His entire body was shaking with rage and not a small amount of apprehension, and now his eyes chose to spring a leak?

“Make a mess if you need,” Morgan murmured.

The next sound out of his throat was definitely a whimper. Dean figured he had the right to it by this point. This bitch had her hand between his thighs, fingers brushing against an area he had been pretending did not exist.

“Don’t you dare,” he gasped.

And then her fingers were _inside of him_. It felt horrible and bizarre, and now he knew exactly what it meant to feel completely violated. There was no stopping that mortified yip of distress, nor was he able to keep from jerking against her. All this did was prompt her to chuckle, bite his earlobe, and press hard against his core, and _holy shit that hurt_.

“Mm.” Morgan looked at him like she was contemplating a painting while her fingers moved roughly, twisting and making his gut _writhe_ in horror. “I should have used waterproof mascara.”

Eyes closing, chest heaving in failed attempt to contain the strange _hurt_ inside, Dean gave into the tears. Morgan was the only one around to see them anyway. Good god! Women actually liked this? Dean was pretty sure he would never be able to have sex with a woman again if this was what they felt. Maybe all women were just masochists by nature.

“ _Please_.”

He gasped in relief as the hand pulled away. There were still phantom fingers crawling back and forth in him, but it was better than the physical presence of Morgan’s fingers. He recoiled a bit at the fingers pressing at his mouth, gagging at the scent and wet feeling across his lips. The fingers she was trying to put into his mouth were the very same that she had put into his—Deans mind would not even provide the word for that one. Yeah, he was pretty sure he was beyond horrified. Maybe vomiting would be a good idea now.

“Hey.”

Dean choked and groaned. Because that voice did not belong to Morgan. It was male and one he knew, and he must have cracked because Adam was dead.

“You!” Morgan sounded equally shocked. “How—”

“Not your concern. Back away. Now.” Okay. That really sounded like Adam.

“You can’t be alive!” And that was Morgan, scrambling off Dean’s lap and sounding terrified. Dean’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Morgan through a watery haze. She looked as frightened and angry as she sounded.

“Yes, well men can’t be women overnight either.” Dean looked, and yes, that truly was Adam. Adam looking far more dangerous than Dean had realized the man could look. He couldn’t decide if he should be glad Adam was alive or horrified. “Now, you fix him, or you die.”

“What’s to stop you from killing me if I fix him?” Morgan asked shrilly.

“Nothing.” Jesus. Was that a sword? Why was Adam wielding a sword when a gun was so much more efficient? “And honestly, if Dean wants me to, I’ll happily see you dead.”

“Adam?” That was not a whimper. It _wasn’t_. Dean was just having a difficult time processing everything that was happening right now. Like MacLeod over there, also armed with a sword. And Cassandra. Did these people have a medieval fetish?

“We got this, Methos,” MacLeod said. “Take care of Dean.”

It might have been seconds or minutes—hell, it could have been hours for all the trouble Dean was having keeping time—but suddenly Adam was there, talking, unlocking the cuffs, more talking…

“I saw you die,” Dean managed.

“I’ll explain that later,” Adam told him. Dean winced as Adam’s hands found his throat, pressing firmly but not really painfully. “You’re going into shock. Here.”

A heavy warmth settled around his shoulders, and Dean grabbed at the cloth, alarmed at how feeble he felt. It was a coat, long and warm, but not the one Adam had been wearing earlier. That had been black. This was tan. And Dean was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.

“You’re okay,” Adam pulled Dean upright, holding tight when trembling legs first refused to hold Dean’s weight. Confused and a little frightened, Dean let himself be manhandled into the sleeves of the coat. Adam cinched the belt around his waist and then hauled him close, and if Dean had been more aware, he might have had a problem with the not-dead man hugging him. “It’s okay now. I’m sorry it took us so long to get to you.”

Dean shuddered and gave a breathy chuckle.

“I’m being comforted by a dead man,” he said wryly.

It was at about that time that the pain struck. It was all-encompassing and altogether too familiar. Ripping through his nervous system like a lightning strike, it threatened to tear him apart. Because being sexually assaulted by a psychotic witch was not enough for one day, he now had to suffer through this again. Dean was pretty sure something broke in him just then. That was definitely a scream, and he was definitely the source of it, and nothing was okay right now.

Maybe this time fate would have mercy on him and just let him die.

* * *

Several things happened almost simultaneously then. First off, Dean’s entire body locked up as though suffering a seizure. The tears stopped, and Dean started screaming. Adam caught the boy-turned-girl when he dropped like a rock.

He cursed. This was the worst possible timing for the spell to be reversed. The kid was already in shock, and now they were torturing him. If Cassandra wanted Dean to stay alive, she was not doing a good job of it. To top it off, dying from shock as a result of torture was not a nice way to go. They would be lucky if Dean came out of this with any sense of sanity left in his head.

“ _MacLeod!_ ” Dean did not like the way Adam bellowed. He could tell by the way the kid’s scream’s hitched and crumbled into frantic sobbing. “MacLeod! What did you guys do?!”

The Highlander got to him in record time. That is, several seconds had passed, enough time for Adam to have allowed Dean to drag them both to the floor. MacLeod found them a moment later. The younger immortal looked ready to jump in with his own attempts at comfort. As it was, Adam was sure he was not helping Dean feel any better, but the kid had latched onto him and refused to let go. It could actually have been a prideful ploy to muffle any noises he made in Adam’s sweater, but that might have been just wishful thinking on Adam’s part.

“Morgan is dead,” MacLeod said darkly. “She had Dean’s weapon. She could have used it on us, but she killed herself.”

“She was too sick to live with herself,” Cassandra added. Adam cringed at the woman’s closeness, but there was little he could do. Dean had him pretty much pinned down. “I found Marina in an office upstairs sleeping. She’ll be fine.”

“We need to get both of them out of here,” MacLeod said. “My place won’t be good right now.”

The police had arrived even as MacLeod and Adam had pulled away in the blood-spattered and broken car. If they were still around (which, after gunshots being heard in the vicinity, they would be), they would be noticed.

“Joe’s?” Adam asked. “He won’t open for another six hours anyway.”

It was hard to believe it was not yet ten in the morning.

“You can take my car,” Cassandra said firmly. Adam looked at her, startled when keys found their way into his hands. “Try to keep her from dying.”

“If I dared, I’d take him to a hospital,” Adam said, harshly emphasizing the _him_ in the statement. Dean would have freaked if he had heard anyone who knew him referring to him as a _she_. Of course, if Dean was more aware, he would also be appalled that Adam had hefted him up and carried him bridal style toward the exit. As it was, Dean just shook and curled into the hold, hands almost tearing Adam’s shirt with his violent grip. He was going to have a problem. “No, I need one of you to drive. He’s not letting go, and I don’t think forcing him to will do him any favors.”

In the end, they agreed that MacLeod was the more sympathetic and therefore more appropriate choice for dealing with Marina. Cassandra reclaimed her keys and led them to her car. It was a rundown little Chevy, but there was enough room in the back to fit both Adam’s lanky frame and Dean’s clinging body. Adam promised himself he would not bring this up later if Dean would just survive the next several hours.

At least the crying had stopped. His shirt, however, would never be the same. Did that bitch put lipstick on the hunter? That had to be what that pink smear was. And the black smudges matched the streaks of coal marring Dean’s wet face. As much as Dean would have hated to know it, Adam had to admit the hunter’s face was still lovely, even with that mess of tears and cosmetics attempting to ruin it. Hell, the shirt was MacLeod’s anyway.

“How is she?” Cassandra asked.

Adam scowled and attempted to tuck the smaller body closer to his. Dean had stopped crying, but the shaking was only getting worse. The poor kid had to be in a tremendous amount of pain.

“How do you think?” he snapped. “And stop that. That spell might have made his body female, but Dean is still a guy, and I _know_ he won’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

“I doubt he’s hearing me anyway,” Cassandra retorted. “You’re getting pretty emotionally involved, Methos.”

“And you’re completely detached for being the one who insisted Dean has to live,” he snarled. “What the hell is your problem, anyway? He’s a good kid, but it’s like you don’t want to care at all.”

Cassandra’s dark eyes met his briefly in the rearview mirror. Adam scowled at the warning look on her face.

“You do not get to lecture me on not caring,” she said coldly. “It is only my _caring_ for Duncan that allows your head to remain on your shoulders.”

Adam sneered and turned back to Dean. This was a millennia-old argument, and now was not the time for it. Dean had settled into that same shivering silence he had suffered the previous night. It seemed cruel that the hunter be subjected to this agony twice in under twelve hours. His pain tolerance had to be impressively high that he was not still screaming right now.

They reached Joe’s bar none too soon. Adam did not bother with words—of thanks or anger. He just shoved the door open and carried his charge to the door where Joe was waiting. Cassandra did not follow. She just put the car in gear and drove away.

“Good god,” Joe muttered when he saw the person in Adam’s arms. “That’s Dean?”

“He’ll be back to the kid you remember in a couple hours,” Adam replied. It was morbid humor, but it was true. Joe led them to his back office, where Adam finally tried to pry himself loose from Dean’s death grip.

“What the hell happened?” Joe asked when he saw the hunter’s streaked face.

“A witch,” Adam said bluntly. “Joe, you got any blankets? I’ve got to get him out of these clothes, or he’s going to be very uncomfortable when this is all over.”

Joe swore when he saw what Adam was talking about. In addition to the heavy cosmetics, Morgan had dressed the hunter in a very short, frilly red dress.

“Is that a Lolita costume?” Joe asked blankly.

“How the hell should I know?” Adam grumbled. Dean was limp for the most part, but every time Adam moved him, he twitched and tensed. Trying to get to the zipper at the boy’s back was a challenge, to say the least. “Why the hell do _you_ know?”

“My niece has a daughter who’s going through a phase,” Joe explained. “Jesus, Adam! Some decorum!”

Adam supposed he should be embarrassed about exposing a woman’s body for him and a grizzled war vet to see, but he barely noticed. He had seen plenty of naked women in his lifetime, and he had a difficult time seeing this particular one as anything typical. It was more like looking at a naked mannequin, false and unnatural. He would probably be more embarrassed if Dean was in his normal male form.

As it was, the changes were already becoming apparent. The planes of the hunter’s face were broadening, hands thickening, hips straightening. The features were taking on a slightly more masculine tone.

“This is bizarre,” Joe said, handing over a blanket. Adam tossed the costume aside and tucked the blanket around the hunter’s nude form.

“It should only last a couple more hours,” Adam told him. “Do you have a wash cloth? I want to clean him up a bit.”

Dean cringed from the wet cloth that swiped over his cheeks, cleaning away the worst of the makeup streaks. It was going to take more to get all that mascara and eyeliner off, since Adam was not about to start rubbing at Dean’s eyes, closed or not, but the hunter looked better.

Several minutes later, Adam had settled down next to Dean, much as he had the night before. He was not sure when he had fallen into this protective behavioral pattern. It was kind of disturbing, especially considering how he hated being friends with young immortals—let alone pre-immortals. Dean was an asshole, he decided, for having wormed his way into their lives in such a short time. That thought did not stop him from smoothing the hair off of Dean’s sweaty forehead or from observing that the shaking had settled down enough that the young hunter was probably out of mortal danger.

“What happened?” Joe asked with a proffered bottle of beer. Adam accepted the drink gratefully.

“A girl was practicing witchcraft—more complex than most of what Cassandra ever does,” he explained finally. “She was exacting vengeance over anyone who had hurt her or her roommate. She saw Dean as a threat and punished him by turning him into this. Don’t ask, I don’t get it either.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Joe admitted. He had pulled up a chair and was drinking from his own bottle. “And the costume?”

“We had to extract the roommate,” Adam sighed. “The witch went crazy and exposed herself to the other girl. Then, she hired some thugs to track us. They shot me and took Marina and Dean.”

“Crap,” Joe glanced at Dean. “Did Dean see it?”

“Oh yeah,” Adam smiled wryly. Joe swore.

“What else happened?” he demanded.

“It took over an hour to get to him,” Adam sighed. “Morgan—the witch—had him tied to a chair. She was pretty psychotic. With Dean, it was about power. She wanted to take it away from him and humiliate him in the process. From what I saw, she did a pretty good job of it.”

“Aw, damn it,” Joe groaned.

Adam knew Joe understood. Between the strange dress, the complete lack of undergarments, and Dean’s makeup-streaked face, there were probably very few questions in the old war-vet’s mind as to what had happened. Which meant there was very little reason to keep talking. Adam leaned back against the side of the sofa and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and worried, and there was nothing he could do but wait. He might as well take a nap while he did so.

Dean certainly did not care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Immortal vs. Winchester


	7. Saturday: Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An immortal and a Winchester walk into a bar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I promise to get the last chapter out soon.

Saturday, November 2nd, continued

 

It was the sound of people muttering that finally drew Dean back into full consciousness. He was vaguely aware that he had been sleeping. He did not remember going to sleep, which meant that exhaustion had taken hold and forced him under. This was not an unusual occurrence for him, since it happened quite frequently after several long weeks of rough hunts. It did not usually happen in the middle of hunts, though, and certainly not more than once. Still, he was feeling pretty good if a little cramped in his sleeping space.

He was on a sofa, he realized. The sofa was too short for him, but he had been covered in a blanket, and he found he felt fairly comfortable. Warm and somewhat safe.

Memories of Morgan and her sick little game with him flooded back. Grimacing, Dean blinked and stared into his dimly lit surroundings in attempt to focus on something else. That entire experience had been too strange and horrible to want to recall. This little office-like room was different, homey and not nearly as chilly as the warehouse.

“Dean?”

Blinking again, he looked up into Adam’s worried face. The man was sitting in a chair next to the sofa. This was getting to be a familiar position for him. Which reminded him—that agonizing fit earlier had been one he recognized. Was he back to normal?

A quick pat down had him breathing a relieved sigh. Everything was in its rightful place.

“How are you feeling, kid?” Adam asked anxiously.

“Pretty good, actually,” Dean admitted. He squinted up at the other man, another sharp memory coming to front. “How about you? Looking pretty good for a dead guy.”

“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” Adam murmured.

“Bullshit,” Dean snapped. Adam winced when Dean reached out and shoved at his head, running his fingers across the hair, catching in sticky, hardened strands. “Didn’t get all the blood out there, old man.”

“I haven’t had time to shower,” Adam replied irritably.

“Does it hurt?” Dean asked curiously.

His training screamed at him to find out what kind of monster Adam was and put him down. Instinct told him otherwise. Adam had saved his life at great risk to himself. Whatever Adam was, it wasn’t something that was necessarily inherently evil.

“Not anymore,” Adam shrugged. “I heal pretty fast.”

“From death,” Dean pointed out.

“Yes,” Adam agreed wearily.

“Methos,” Dean realized. The pieces were starting to fall into place. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

“It’s a name I used to use,” Adam shrugged. “It’s not my real name. It’s made up.”

“What are you?” Because as long as Adam was answering questions, he might as well ask the really difficult one. Adam was not used to that secret coming out, obviously. No more than Dean was about his hunting supernatural creatures.

“I’m an Immortal,” Adam said finally. “I can die, but it doesn’t usually stick.”

“So when I called you old man…”

“I’m older than anyone else around here,” Adam agreed. “I don’t like that getting around, though. A lot of people think it would be interesting to take me apart based on that alone—mortal and immortal alike. I’m just trying to get by.”

“You’re not the only one, are you?” Dean asked warily.

“It’s not really my place to tell you who, but no,” Adam murmured. “I’m not the only one of my kind.”

“MacLeod and Cassandra,” Dean said bluntly. Adam lifted a surprised eyebrow. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Aye.” Dean frowned at MacLeod’s presence, sudden and big behind Adam. The man moved in like a damned bodyguard, his voice deepening in a Scottish brogue Dean had not really noticed before. “You’re right. And you’d be good to remember that. We’re not always a happy family, but we protect our own, child.”

Dean looked at MacLeod, accepting the warning for what it was. He didn’t blame the man. It was a threat he might make if someone came after Sam.

“Yeah, I’ll remember that,” he said eventually. Besides, he had other things to worry about. “Did you get Marina out okay?”

“The girl is fine,” MacLeod said. “She’ll want to hear from you.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, knowing he would not be looking forward to that call. “Later. Morgan?”

“Dead,” Adam said frankly. “She shot herself with your gun.”

Dean could not find it within himself to be sorry. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, frowning when his finger came back smudged black.

“What the…”

“You may want to clean yourself up,” Adam told him. “There’s a bathroom in the back. MacLeod brought your bag.”

Because Dean had no clothing on whatsoever beneath the blanket. He had noticed that when he checked himself over earlier, but Adam’s appearance had distracted him from this fact. It did not really make him comfortable to know he had been that exposed so many times in one day.

“What time is it?” he asked instead of throwing a fit.

“Little after five. You’re at Joe’s bar—it’s open.”

That explained the murmuring.

“We’ll wait out front,” Adam said. MacLeod looked ready to protest, but Adam was already herding him out of the room.

Dean was grateful for the time alone. The last time he had any time to himself had been in the bathroom that morning at MacLeod’s place. Then, he had been freaking out at the changes that had been made to his body. Before that, it was a different bathroom trip, in Adam’s apartment. Then, he had been irritated at being held veritable prisoner. This time was not really much better, he supposed. Especially when his eyes caught upon the red lace in the corner.

Grabbing his bag, which had been placed so conveniently beside the sofa, Dean stalked back to the bathroom. It was a private, single-toilet number. It was old and dingy, but it looked clean, so Dean let his bag drop beside the closed door. He had to pee like nobody’s business, so he did so and flushed the toilet. The true problem did not come until he turned to wash his hands in the sink.

He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting did him no favors, but there was no doubting the paleness of his skin. It was highlighted by smudged darkness around his eyes, unnatural and certainly not caused by over-exhaustion. It was eyeliner and mascara.

Dean really hoped no one came back into the office. He was not in the mood to have to explain why he was suddenly and violently sick into the washbasin.

* * *

The kid looked a little pale and shaky when he finally came into the bar. Joe did not hesitate. Neither, he noticed, did Adam or MacLeod. Adam moved over a seat even as Joe placed a shot glass in front of the place where he had been sitting. Dean glanced at them warily but settled on the stool and picked up the shot, throwing it back without any hesitation of his own. He grimaced and let the glass hit the counter with a clank. Joe refilled the glass, and again the alcohol was swallowed.

Dean sighed and glanced at the men who had flanked him.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. “You can all stop this territorial crap now.”

“Deal with it,” Adam retorted. “What now? The job’s done.”

“I’ll crash for the night, leave in the morning,” Dean shrugged. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never see me again.”

“Actually,” Joe dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card—it had his office phone, the one he used for the Watchers. It was forwarded to his cell phone whenever he was out of the office. “I want you to keep in touch. And I don’t mean another fifteen years. I’d like your number too, in case maybe we need a little backup ourselves. You game?”

The kid was visibly bewildered by this turn of events. He tried to shrug it off, accepting the card and tucking it into his pocket with a forced amount of casualness. He grabbed a napkin, accepted the pen Joe offered, and wrote down a number.

“It might be nice knowing some people who don’t die so easy,” Dean mumbled.

Joe caught Adam’s smirk, and there was no missing MacLeod’s sudden bark of laughter. Dean rolled his eyes and accepted the gentle nudge in his ribs from the Highlander.

“Now you can find out why we hang around Joe’s,” MacLeod said lightly. “He’s about to play for us.”

“Is it Saturday?” Dean asked incredulously. “Jesus. No wonder this day sucked so bad.”

Joe frowned and looked back to the kid for explanation. There was none forthcoming, though. Dean just held up his glass with a raised eyebrow. Joe sighed and refilled it.

“Last one,” he ordered. “At least until you eat something.”

“Yes, Dad,” Dean sneered.

“Kids,” Joe grumbled, gimping away to join the band on stage.

* * *

It really was not a bad last night in town. Dean wished he was maybe a little more drunk, a little less moody, but MacLeod had picked up the tab for his meal. Adam’s barbed commentary really did entertain. And Joe was as amazing on his guitar as Dean remembered him being when he was a kid. Despite the case taking on a rather personal nature, it had turned out all right in the end. Marina was safe and the witch was dead. It was always nice when he successfully saved a person’s life.

In retrospect, it had been Adam and his friends who had saved him and Marina in the warehouse. Dean had little doubt that Marina would have met her grisly end there if not for Adam’s quick thinking and Morgan’s stupidity in not ditching their cell phones. He hated to think how much worse things could have gotten for him if Adam had not arrived when he had.

Since he had already thrown up once that day, he decided it was better not to think about it at all. He was fine. He was safe. Hell, he was a man again. All very good things in his book. Maybe he should drink more beer.

The crowd thinned out by the time one o’clock hit. Dean was barely able to keep his eyes open, so he didn’t. He leaned back against the bar, eyes closed, and just listened to the hum of the live music and the remaining people. At around one thirty, MacLeod made a disparaging little noise in the back of his throat and leaned over to comment.

“A little late to join in, don’t you think?”

Dean grunted, correctly assuming someone else had walked into the bar. It was a little late, since Joe would shut the place down at two, but a half hour was plenty of time for a couple drinks. Dean was considering another right now.

“You’re already dead on your feet,” MacLeod rebuked when he reached for his beer. Dean cracked an eye to frown at him when the bottle slid away from his questing fingers. “I’m not carrying you to the car. And certainly not to the apartment.”

“Dean.”

Every muscle in his back went rigid at that familiar voice barking his name. He was off the barstool and standing at attention before he truly registered the man’s presence. It was a conditioned response, but he hardly cared. Because he had not been expecting this man to come, and now that he was here, it took everything in Dean’s power not to throw himself at him.

“Dad!” he blurted. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

John Winchester frowned at him, then at the men who were no doubt watching him with open curiosity.

“I spoke to Bobby, and he thought you might be having some trouble,” he said in vague explanation. “I finished my job and drove straight here.” Then, voice dark with disapproval, he added, “Are these _friends_ of yours?”

“Oh, um… yeah,” Dean glanced back at Adam and MacLeod, not surprised to find them both looking at him with eyebrows raised in challenge. “This is Duncan MacLeod and Adam Pierson. They’re friends of the barkeep—Joe Dawson. Joe babysat for me and Sam years ago, remember?”

It was obvious by the look on the elder Winchester’s weathered face that he did not. His dad might have remembered the old lady Trish, but Joe had stepped in when John was working. Come to think of it, Dean doubted his dad had ever met Joe.

“Awesome guy with the guitar and bum legs?” Dean tried again, because surely he and Sam had told him about it. But his dad’s face remained blank, his eyes cold. Dean sighed. “Never mind. I got the job done. Adam and MacLeod helped.”

“Helped?” John was incredulous. “Helped how?”

“Mostly with the boring research,” Adam drawled. “I’m good with a computer, you see. MacLeod used some of his connections to get Dean into the dorms for some interviews. But really, Mr. Winchester, your son did all the legwork. We’d never really dealt with a witch before. Needed your boy to keep us from getting killed.”

Dean shot him a dirty look. That bastard. Now his dad was going to think he was recruiting civilians to do work he couldn’t handle doing alone.

“’s that so,” his dad said too mildly. “You didn’t say you were hunting a witch. You shouldn’t be tracking those on your own, son.”

“We stopped her, Dad!” Dean protested.

The instant the words were out, he wondered if perhaps he had a little too much alcohol in him for this argument. Or any argument with his father. That distrustful look on his dad’s face was crushing him, and he found himself at a loss for words. If this had been Sam, he could have dealt with it—could have slapped the overgrown asshole in the face with his concern—but it was Dad. And Dean did not argue with his father. Not ever.

“You’re drunk, Dean.” The part of Dean that hated authority railed up against the rebuke. The rest of him (most of him) cringed at having done anything Dad wouldn’t like. “Go get some sleep. We’ll discuss this when you’re sober.”

There it was. The dismissal. He was now properly cowed and completely humiliated at being scolded like a child in front of Adam and MacLeod—and there was Joe, approaching them from behind the bar. Yeah. A perfect end to a perfect day. Saturday. The second of freaking _November_. Dean could not recall the last time he’d had a good day on a November second in his entire life. He should just hide in bed each year until the day ended. Surely there was nothing so important it couldn’t wait until the third.

Someone was tugging at his arm and speaking. Furious at the tears that threatened to rise and further embarrass him, Dean shook off the hand and stalked out of the bar. He was vaguely aware of someone following him—probably MacLeod, who was supposed to be his ride that night—but he ignored it. He wanted to hit something, and if he focused on the person with him, he might end up starting a fight.

There were a few metal trashcans at the alley entrance. No one stopped him when he lashed out at them.

* * *

“That was pretty cold, Winchester,” Joe said as the door closed behind Dean and MacLeod. Adam was impressed with the amount of disdain the old watcher managed to put in his voice. John Winchester had rebuked his boy—publicly no less—and now he was going to pay for it. Adam hoped he got to help.

“Who the hell are you?” John demanded.

“Joe Dawson,” Joe said bluntly. “I watched your kids a few times when you were off on a _business trip_. And I’m one of the people who has been making sure your boy didn’t bite it this week.”

“My son shouldn’t be accepting help from amateur hunters—and cripple ones at that,” John growled. “I taught him better than that.”

“Your son didn’t have much of a choice,” Adam said mildly. “Besides, Joe wasn’t part of the team. It was mostly me. Since MacLeod made such a _wonderful_ first impression on the kid.”

Joe sighed, no doubt recalling the circumstances under which Dean and MacLeod had first met. Although he had unwrapped the wrist after the first morning (telling Adam the binding restricted his movement), MacLeod had honestly hurt him, and that was never a good way to be introduced to someone. He had not complained about it since, but Adam had seen the way he favored that hand during their impromptu mock-battles.

“Listen, John,” Joe stepped in, probably thinking Adam would say something a little too scathing. He was probably right, so Adam held his tongue. “Assuming you and Dean do the same type of work…”

John gave a curt nod at the pause. The man was waiting, assessing, holding judgment until the explanations were through. At least for them. For his son—and Adam was a little irked to even consider that a correct term still—there had been no hesitation. He had come in, called Dean out, and sent the kid packing.

Quite frankly, Adam was surprised John had allowed MacLeod to follow Dean outside. This man clearly saw all of them as a threat which potentially needed neutralizing. And yet, he had said nothing when MacLeod shot him a disapproving look (as only the Highlander could manage) and chased after Dean.

“Then you’re familiar with psychics.”

John’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ve met a few,” he admitted. “Why?”

“We happen to know one,” Adam said wryly. John frowned at him. Adam wanted nothing more than to grab him and shake him and demand to know _why_ , why did he refuse that child a chance at a normal life? Somehow, he restrained himself.

“She passed us a message,” Joe explained calmly. “That Dean was going to die. I’m under the impression she asked your boy to leave town but he refused.”

Actually, she had attempted to intimidate Dean into leaving town. From what Adam understood, she and MacLeod had thoroughly frightened the young man, and still he refused to leave. He was determined to prevent any further deaths. For the most part, he had been successful. Adam decided not to tell John all of that.

“Dean would never leave a job unfinished,” John said gruffly. Adam felt an eyebrow raise. Was that… _approval_ he heard?

“Since they could not convince him to leave, Adam agreed to back your boy up,” Joe concluded. “He’s not well versed on the supernatural, but he’s adaptable and good in a fight.” Joe kindly did not point out that Adam had been knocked out of commission long enough to get Dean kidnapped. Although, that might not be a bad thing for this man to know if he cared the way Adam suspected he did. “They had a bit of a rough time of it, from what I gather, but Dean figured it out in the end. And they handled it.”

“Rough time?” John’s attention was now fully on Adam. “What do you mean?”

“Oh… well.” It had been a long time since Adam had been on the receiving end of the glare of an overprotective parent. Damn. This man was brutal to his son to his face, but when it came to making sure he was safe, he was willing to pull all the stops. It left a bitter feeling in the back of Adam’s throat. “Dean caught the bad end of a transformation spell. Blood magic.”

“ _What?_ ” John’s eyes shot toward the door, body tensing. It was a need, one Adam had actually felt when Dean was recovering from the aftereffects of the spell. One all of them had felt. John’s need to know Dean was okay was probably far stronger than anything Joe, MacLeod or Adam had experienced.

Adam was glad the bar was empty. This conversation would have been strange enough without the things he needed to say now.

“Before you go out there, I’ve got a few things to tell you,” he said. John looked at him, drawn to a voice of authority. It was not one Adam often used, but Methos knew how to get a grown man’s attention and hold it. He had John’s now. “One, Dean was not physically damaged. He did, however, run into a fair bit of trouble while under that spell. We got to him before it could escalate to any extreme, but the damage has been done.

“Two, that kid is handling it fairly well, but there’s probably a reason why he drank so much tonight.” The muscles in John’s jaw were twitching madly. This guy was obviously a man of action, and to sit here and just listen was probably a challenge for him. “No, I’m not telling you what happened. That’s Dean’s story, although I doubt he’ll share it.”

John closed his eyes and sighed, nodding in apparent agreement. Adam was actually grateful that Dean had left. MacLeod was gone, so presumably the kid had been driven back to the loft. This part needed to be said without Dean’s interference.

“Lastly,” Adam fixed the full force of his glare on the man, who merely frowned in confusion. “What the hell are you thinking dragging a kid that isn’t yours into this life?”

Joe visibly winced. Admittedly, he was being harsh, not to mention completely out of character for Adam Pierson. He usually sat back and let things happen. Confrontation was not a common pastime for him. This kid had really grown on him.

John was shocked, an emotion that immediately turned to fury.

“What?” It was asked softly and dangerously. But Adam was not afraid of this man. John Winchester had no means with which he could hurt the immortal. He was about to find that out.

“He thinks you’re his father—blood related,” Adam growled. “And he’ll follow you because that’s what you taught him to do. But you and I both know he is _not_ your child.”

The punch was predictable. Were he interested in maintaining his harmless façade, Adam would have taken that hit. He could stand to have a man like this underestimate him. Dean’s word alone obviously would not hold any sway in convincing the elder Winchester otherwise. But Adam was angry for no discernible reason, and he was not about to let this arrogant asshole land a punch. It took no effort at all to deflect it, plant a firm hand against the man’s shoulder blade, and shove, sending the fool stumbling. John whirled, furious enough to spit fire. Unfortunately for him, he was not a creature capable of such measures. Adam jabbed an accusing finger into the air.

“Don’t you dare think of denying it,” he snapped. “You’ve spent the past twenty years hunting the supernatural, and all this time you’ve been raising one.”

Perhaps that had not been the best way to state it. John looked green, and his next whispered, “ _What?_ ” was filled with horror.

“You bastard,” Joe grumbled. “Supernatural! You just said he wasn’t an Immortal yet.”

“He’s not,” Adam said icily, still staring down the so-called father. Joe already knew this, and Adam was not wasting any time on the man’s outrage over semantics. John Winchester, on the other hand, needed to know what he had done. “At least, not yet. Actually, he might have been, had we let fate take its course. Your son would have died, and then he would have revived, never to age, never to be free to join the human race as a normal man again.”

“Immortal…” John croaked. “I’ve heard of that. I thought it was a myth.”

“Think again, Johnny-boy,” Adam sneered. “They’ve been around for millennia. Some of them are older than any of the creatures you’ve fought. And don’t be getting any ideas about hunting them down. We do our own hedge trimming if anyone gets out of hand.”

“You’re…”

“Yeah.”

John looked surprised at the admission.

“Dean knows it, so you might as well,” Adam said, adding irritably, “He’ll tell you anyway.”

“And you know Dean’s… how?” John was quickly rallying his defenses, rushing back toward anger.

“We can always identify our own,” Adam murmured. “Why didn’t you at least _tell_ him he was adopted?”

The defenses dropped again. John moved shakily to the bar and sat. Joe stumped over with a glass and a bottle of whiskey. John downed it with the same proficiency that Dean had swallowed his earlier.

“Jesus,” John whispered. “Mary had a miscarriage. She was told she couldn’t have children. She was so devastated. We adopted him… he was just a baby. We were going to tell him when he was older. Then Mary was killed… I was just trying to keep him safe.”

“By sending him out to hunt creatures that could easily eat him for breakfast?” Adam demanded.

“You don’t understand,” John glared at him wearily. “After Mary died… I wasn’t in a good place. I had two boys, the only thing left in the world—”

“Wait,” Joe interrupted. “ _Two?_ ”

Adam caught his grimace as he most likely recalled that Dean had not been alone in his care all those years ago.

“Sam,” was John’s expected acknowledgement. “It wasn’t supposed to happen, but Mary got pregnant when Dean was three. She carried him to term. Dean was so… _proud_ to be a big brother. And when she died. I couldn’t lose them. Dean’s my son. He was marked the instant that demon came and killed his mom. I had to protect him.”

Adam was starting to understand. He did not like it, but he understood.

“So you taught him how to protect himself,” he predicted. John gave him a teary-eyed smile. Shit. There was no denying the love there.

“He took to hunting like a fish to water,” he said proudly. “He protected his little brother. Took care of him—took care of _me_. He stepped up when no one else could. I wouldn’t be here without him.”

“That’s an excuse.” Adam realized he was being cruel. But Dean had officially become a friend. The few of those Adam had were not going to be treated like trash, no matter what the reason.

“I know,” John looked at him, his face a strange missive of exhaustion and determination. “Does Dean know?”

“And run the risk of him turning reckless on the knowledge that he can’t truly die?” Adam snorted. “They all get reckless if they know. They die prematurely. And then they go through the decades, alone. I’m not that cruel.”

John sighed.

“I can’t tell him,” he murmured. “We never even knew who his birth mother was. There was virtually no information on the birth certificate. Even his birthday was guessed at by the doctors. Mary called him a miracle from the angels.”

“Immortals don’t ever have known parents,” Joe explained, pouring another shot of whiskey. John downed that one too. “That’s how Adam knew Dean wasn’t your son. All immortals are foundlings.”

“You should tell him that he was adopted,” Adam murmured. “Maybe not now. He’s had a rough time of it today. But you should tell him.”

John sighed again and nodded heavily, looking into his empty shot glass. Joe lifted the bottle to fill it, but the hunter turned the glass bottom-side-up and shoved it away. When next he lifted his eyes, they were filled with hot determination.

“Now,” he said quietly. “Take me to my son.”

* * *

It was the second time in as many days that MacLeod had given up his bed to Dean. The first time, Dean had been too out of his head with pain and confusion to even come close to objecting. This time, Dean was just plain uncommunicative. The kid followed along in silence when MacLeod led him to the bedroom, not questioning, not protesting, not speaking at all. It had been awkward leaving Dean standing over the bed, not knowing if he would sleep or just stand there staring at the comforter all night.

Dean had been like this since his outburst outside Joe’s bar. MacLeod had let the kid work through his anger, figuring he would call and have Adam clean up later. It would not be fair to Joe to leave the trash strewn about the alley after all. Cleaning up after the boy directly after he went to such effort to make the mess would not likely benefit things at the moment, so MacLeod let it be.

He had been hoping Dean would have an outburst like Richie used to. Once Richie got to the tantrum stage, the kid would then turn and tell Mac exactly what was on his mind. However, Dean and Richie were different people, and it seemed that Dean was more the type to shove his problems inward rather than work them out. Maybe Methos would be better for this. This kind of cold shoulder treatment was exactly the sort of thing MacLeod would expect from him. Surely he could relate on some level.

Unfortunately, Methos was back giving Winchester Senior a piece of his mind. MacLeod had seen the predatory look in his ancient friend’s eyes, and he had to wonder what would come of John Winchester. He had to trust that Joe would temper _Methos’s_ temper enough that John would not go Hunter on all of them. MacLeod would feel quite bad if he had to put the fear of God (or rather, Immortals) into Dean’s foster father.

He set about cleaning up his kitchen, which had been neglected since their frantic dash to campus that morning. The sound would probably travel to the next room, but if Dean was planning to sleep, he was probably exhausted enough to sleep through the noise. If he wasn’t, then the clanking would not be an issue.

The buzz of a nearby immortal had MacLeod looking up as he finished drying the last of the plates. He set the dish in its rightful place in the cupboard. Methos did not look particularly surprised when the door swung open, away from his raised fist. MacLeod, on the other hand, was more than a little startled to see John Winchester at the old immortal’s back.

“Adam,” MacLeod murmured, knowing full well that Methos would not like any other name to be flung around in the presence of anyone other than close friends. He might end up with a chest full of lead if he said it in front of John. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Dad_ here wanted to see Dean,” Methos announced. The look he shot John was not friendly, exactly, but neither was it malicious. The two had apparently come to a sort of understanding. John was no longer snarling, and Methos no longer had that dark gleam in his eyes. That was something, at least.

“He’s in the bedroom,” MacLeod said after a beat. “I don’t know if he’s sleeping. He’s still pretty worked up.”

“Yeah,” Methos scowled. “I really never needed to know what kind of crap lands in Joe’s trashcans.”

“Just be glad you’re not on the Watcher cleanup crew,” MacLeod remarked with a wry grin.

Methos grimaced and dropped into his customary chair, kicking his feet up and making it very clear that he would not be moving anytime soon. He would probably fall asleep there. MacLeod was just glad he left the couch, since that was likely where Mac would be sleeping tonight.

John cleared his throat pointedly, not backing down when MacLeod cast him a critical glare.

“It’s fine, MacLeod,” Methos waved his hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture before letting it fall back to his lap. Yes, he would be snoring soon.

“I want to see my son,” John said sternly.

“Your _son_ ,” MacLeod murmured disparagingly.

John’s eyes sharpened impressively. This man was dangerous. If he had been holding a sword at that moment, MacLeod would have backed down.

“ _My_ son,” John growled.

Methos was watching through one amused eye. MacLeod sighed and relented. This conversation had already occurred, and it had turned out well. He could not agree with the way John had treated Dean before, but the man was protective of the boy. This man was a father, and no one was going to tell him differently.

“The door in the far corner,” MacLeod murmured. “Be careful. I do believe Dean is still armed.”

That brought a faint smile to the man’s weathered face.

“That’s my boy.”

* * *

John Winchester stared down at the sleeping form of his first son. Not for the first time, he noticed that Dean looked like crap. When he and his boy had parted ways in Nevada to pursue different hunts Dean had been fine. Bright eyed, enthusiastic, raring for a new hunt.

Those deep circles under his boy’s eyes had been the first thing John saw when he entered Joe’s bar. Then he had seen the big guy next to Dean swoop in and take charge of his son’s drink, and fear had taken hold. He had taught Dean better. His son knew better. It had only taken one bad experience to know that Dean was going to have problems in places like this. His son, gruff and belligerent. Model pretty. Bars and clubs were trolling grounds for sickos with a stash of Rohypnol. No amount of training could overcome heavy sedation.

He certainly had not expected Dean to know them well enough to trust them at his back on a hunt. That look on the bigger guy’s face had been genuine enough that when Dean snarled and left, John had not stopped him from following. Besides, in that state, Dean would be perfectly capable of taking out MacLeod. He was not sure how he knew, but he did. Dean would beat MacLeod in a fight, hands down.

Crouching down beside the bed, John looked into his son’s exhausted face. He was not sure why, but he had expected it to look different. As if knowing that his boy was something not quite human would change his appearance. Dean looked the same as ever, soft features—like his mother, he had heard some people say—but John was never sure who Dean really looked like. While Sam had taken on more of John’s features, bigger, sharper, stronger, Dean had gone a way that defied family history. Fair in skin and features, he had almost looked feminine. He grew out of that, fortunately, still pretty but definitely boyish. As soon as he was capable of it, he was letting a five o’clock shadow grace his jaw, a look which both aged him and added some masculinity. John had approved.

Now, Dean just looked young and tired. He had not bothered changing out of his clothes before dropping onto the bed. The kid had not even made it beneath the covers. John supposed they were lucky Dean had removed his boots. If it had been a motel, it might not have happened. Perhaps Dean judged MacLeod’s linens worthy of such minor respect.

He was not going to press Dean for details about this hunt. If he needed to talk about it, he would. Eventually. Hopefully before it got to the point that he was breaking under the stress of keeping it hidden. But that was just Dean’s way. He would bury things, ignore them until they came up and bit him in the ass. And John swore to himself he would be there to help pick up the pieces. Dean deserved it.

Dean stirred when John stroked a gentle hand over his head. He felt the spiky hair, short and soft and a little sweaty.  It was a good feeling, real and solid, his son. _His son_. John did not care what those men said. Dean was his and no one else’s. Not just because the paperwork said so. He had raised this boy, had changed his diapers, watched his first steps, heard his first words (Ma! Ba! Dean had called John ‘Ba’ until he was two).  No one could take that from him.

“Mmph… Dad?”

Was it wrong to think of his son as beautiful? John didn’t think so. His children were both beautiful—even Sam with his ungrateful attitude and callousness. John did not think it was possible to love them more than he did. He never really said it, but he would never deny it.

“Hey, Dean,” he murmured, smiling as his son blinked blearily at him.

“’s it mornin’?” Disoriented and tired, Dean still attempted to rise. John kept his hand firm on Dean’s head, amused when the inability to lift it caused his son to frown in confusion.

“No, you stay still now,” he ordered gently. “Rest. You earned it.”

“’m sorry I didn’t call,” Dean mumbled.

John sighed and gently brushed at his boy’s hair again.

“I really wish you would have, Ace,” he admitted. “I should have been here backing you up.”

“’can do it,” Dean grumbled. “Not a kid.”

“You’ll always be my kid,” John disagreed. “I’m proud of you, son. You did good here.”

He had Dean’s attention now. Wide eyes, confusion the only thing showing on that pale face, had John wondering when the last time was that he had given Dean any sort of praise. He vowed to do better in the future.

“Scoot over, Sport,” he ordered. “I’ve been driving two days solid. I’m wiped.”

Though bewildered, Dean did as he was told. He always did as he was told. John never really thought about that, but it occurred to him that Dean had not ever given him trouble like Sam had. Sure, he had bombed out of high school, but that had been partially John’s doing. Sam was a bit of an exception to the rule, excelling even when he bounced from school to school, barely staying long enough to complete a semester. Dean was a bit more normal in that respect. John had felt a little bad when his oldest son rejected high school his junior year, but he had not given Dean any flak. He had expected it.

He had not been lying about being tired. His limbs dragged, resisting his every move even as he climbed into the bed beside Dean. MacLeod had a king size mattress, which was plenty large enough to fit two men of his and Dean’s stature with space to spare. He really did not need to crowd Dean as he did, but it was difficult not to check for himself that his boy was okay.

“C’mere.”

Dean stared at his outstretched arm like it was a rat about to bite him. John shifted and reached with his other hand to grab Dean’s shoulder, tugging at him. Dean scowled.

“Jesus, Dad,” he protested. “I haven’t done this since I was, like, five.”

“How many hours has it been since the transformation spell completed?” John asked bluntly. Dean flinched, which John politely ignored. “You must be sore. Come here.”

Dean did not need to be told a third time. He shuffled over cautiously, letting his father wrap him in warm arms. John ran his hands over his son’s arms and back, rubbing gently, noting the tension in the surface muscles. Dean grunted and buried his face in John’s shoulder whenever he hit a particularly sore spot. After a while, John relented to exhaustion, simply rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s back, glad the boy had relaxed into sleep again.

Too tired to hold out any longer, John fell asleep. He spent the night like that, holding his son to him as he had not done in nearly twenty years. Dean slept soundly, not moving an inch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes on the Supernatural front: 1. For anyone who doesn't already know, November 2nd was the date Mary Winchester (John's wife) died. 2. My apologies for any OOCness there might be. It has been a very long time since I last saw any Supernatural episodes with John in them. I attribute his shmoopy moments to the bomb Methos dropped in his lap. People behave differently when they might lose things they previously took for granted.


	8. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

Sunday, November 3rd

 

“It’s been a hell of a time knowing you, Dean.”

MacLeod shook Dean’s hand Sunday morning. It was fairly early, especially considering their late night, but Dean and John had been up since eight.

Adam yawned and leaned against the side of the Impala, disinterestedly watching John toss Dean’s bag into the trunk. There had been some protests heard from the bedroom, but neither immortal dared get between father and son. In the end, Dean had been sent to deal with MacLeod and Adam while John did all the packing.

Not that Adam appreciated being awake after a night of sleeping on a chair in the living room, but he supposed he could appropriate MacLeod’s bed later to get some much needed rest. MacLeod had not helped matters with his snoring. Honestly, how could any of those women tolerate sleeping in the same room as the Highlander, let alone the same bed? Adam had been tempted to smother him just to shut him up. It was not as though he would stay dead for long.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Dean agreed ruefully. He kept half an eye on John, who was spending more time than was probably necessary in the trunk of the car. Adam heard the rustling of John shoving things around to his liking, but there was no way he was getting involved in _that_ fight.

“Feel free to visit if you’re ever in town again,” MacLeod said, probably more out of politeness than any sincerity. Surely the Highlander realized Dean would never swing into town without a damn good reason. From the guarded look Dean adopted, Adam was not far off in his prediction.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said after a brief moment’s hesitation. “Call if you or anyone you know needs anything. I’ll give you the family rate.”

MacLeod, bless his naïve Scottish heart, looked surprised.

“You charge people for this?” he asked blankly. “Do you have a PI license?”

Dean grinned.

“Dude, the pay on this job is shit,” he laughed. “Do you really think we could just put ourselves in the phone book: Hunters for hire? I’m pretty sure I’ve got twelve dollars to my name right now.”

MacLeod looked horrified. Adam pushed away from his perch, deciding to rescue both men from what was certain to be a very uncomfortable conversation.

“Joe gave you that number intending that you use it,” he said a little too loudly. Dean glanced at him, mouth twisting dubiously. “We’ve got our own problems without yours to add to them, but Joe’s got one hell of an information network. He’ll probably toss you a bone now and then.”

“Just as long as he waits a good long while before sending me a tip about a witch,” Dean said sourly. “Have I mentioned how much I hate witches?”

“You have,” Adam murmured. It was actually the first thing Dean remarked upon once declaring their beast a witch.

“I know Morgan was pretty bad, but are all witches like that?” MacLeod asked curiously. “I mean, wasn’t she just as human as the rest of us?”

Dean snorted.

“More human than you,” he muttered. “But yeah. Her species isn’t the problem. It’s what species she worshipped.”

“Most witchcraft is dark—demon based,” John stepped up to explain. “A person willing to worship a demon is usually a pretty sick person. For every step taken toward the dark, the darkness will pull them another two. Soon there’s not much left of humanity in the bastard. Consider that a warning.”

Adam’s eyebrows went up, and he heard Dean’s disgusted grunt at the same time.

“Nice, Dad. Real nice.”

“What?”

Dean rolled his eyes, then heard the chuckle and stared incredulously. Adam had to admit, John Winchester had a sick sense of humor. The man knew his son was one violent death away from becoming an Immortal himself. There was no way John would willingly hunt down another Immortal without a very good reason. Still, it was not a bad idea to offer a gentle reminder.

“If you run into one of ours causing problems, you call Joe,” Adam said sternly. “We’ll take care of it. There are strict rules in our family that must be followed. Outside interference tends to be met with violent retribution. I don’t want to have to come save your ass over your own stupidity.”

“Sure thing, old man,” Dean grinned, totally not understanding. John’s eyes darkened though, which meant the message had reached its intended target. Adam returned Dean’s smile and clasped the young man’s forearm warmly, feeling his gripped in return. “Thanks for the backup. Next time, don’t kidnap me to do it.”

“It wasn’t kidnapping, it was coercion,” Adam retorted.

“You ran up against a master manipulator, Dean,” MacLeod observed. “You didn’t stand a chance.”

“Now that I know shooting him won’t cause any permanent harm, I’ll just put him down long enough to get away before you guys can get me into any more trouble,” Dean retorted.

“Hanging out with all of you is enough to give a guy warm, fuzzy feelings,” Adam snarked. “Don’t be a stranger, kid.”

“You’ve got my number too, old man,” Dean shot back.

A few more back pats and wry grins, and Dean was in his car and pulling away from the curb. John watched him go, then looked at Adam and MacLeod warily.

“You’re serious about this,” he said, as if hoping the information had changed in the last eight hours.

“In your line of work, it’s less a matter of if and more a matter of when,” Adam said gently. “If you’re lucky, you’ll die first, as a parent should. If not, then you get him the hell back here. We’ll make sure he keeps his head until he’s damn good and ready to really die.”

“The Game,” John scowled. “I read about that.”

“I’d love to know where you got your information.” Seriously. Because if it was common knowledge somewhere outside of Watcher Chronicles, then Adam needed to find and destroy that source of information. “Let him live a normal life—as normal as you guys get anyway. Don’t tell him he’s destined for immortality. It’s never a good thing for people to know that.”

“What happens if he dies of natural causes?” John asked. “If he grows old… If he just dies of old age.”

“He stays dead,” MacLeod explained. “Only a premature, unnatural death results in an Immortal.”

John nodded, no doubt given plenty to think about for his drive. He held out his hand, and Adam cautiously accepted it. The elder Winchester shook his hand firmly and looked him square in the eye.

“Thank you for keeping my son alive.”

Adam nodded.

“He’s a good kid.”

John returned the nod, his expression set with certainty.

“Yeah. He really is.”

As the man drove away in his truck, MacLeod clapped a hand against Adam’s shoulder.

“You want some breakfast?”

It was always like this. The bizarre marched through their lives like it belonged. People died. And afterward? Normalcy. Life went on.

“Someone should call Joe.” And by this, Adam meant that MacLeod should do it. “And don’t bug me until lunchtime.”

MacLeod huffed and shook his head. He made his usual fussy protests when Adam left his boots by the foot of the bed and tried to protest that the sheets needed to be cleaned. But there was still dried blood in Adam’s hair, his clothing was the same he had worn the day before, and Adam was just too tired to care. When he woke, he would be itching for a shower, but until then, MacLeod could stuff it.

“You think we’ll see the kid again?” MacLeod dared ask.

Adam groaned and yanked a blanket over his head. MacLeod sighed and backed out of the room. They would not talk about it. They rarely talked about anything truly important. Either way, there was little doubt in Adam’s mind that MacLeod knew what his answer to that question was. Adam was a pragmatist, and generally had little time for impotent hoping. It was strange, then, that he could not bring himself to say the words aloud.

No. He doubted Dean would come around again. Most likely he would die, revive, and then be taken out by a headhunter. Most new immortals did not last more than a score of years.

But Adam really hoped he did.

 

 

 

FIN


End file.
